


Sick Beats of a Lonely Heart

by godtiermeme



Category: Homestuck, Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Rock Band, College Hijinks, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/F, Gen, Humanstuck, M/M, Not so vague references to Fullmetal Alchemist, Pesterlog(s) (Homestuck), Physical Disability, Professor Shiro (Voltron), Recreational Drug Use, Slow Burn, Vague references to Metal Gear
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-12
Updated: 2019-02-16
Packaged: 2019-07-07 14:13:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 37
Words: 79,367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15909891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/godtiermeme/pseuds/godtiermeme
Summary: A tale of standard college woes, told in the sleepy town of Skaia, wherein the Skaia College Sloths reign supreme...Dave Strider's band is in trouble, primarily because its original drummer was finally busted for selling close to every known illegal drug, and he's determined to fix it. After all, what's a rock star with no drummer? Unfortunately for him, this will lead to a series of inexplicable and uncool events, which ultimately embroil him in a massive stew of interpersonal bullshit.Meanwhile, a group of friends, who have declared themselves the Voltron Gang, engage in run-of-the-mill college antics. Such young adult hedonism will, of course, leave them tangled in a web of plot-related fuckery, because thisisa fanfiction.





	1. Roan Pony

**Author's Note:**

> i've declared "fuck it" for the writing style on this one and will now narrate like the unloved hypothetical offspring of lemony snicket and andrew hussie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **[Roan Pony](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XfCiPDfpcFo)** by Paul Williams  
>  _Someday Man_ (1970)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yes i know i have many other fics on the burner and i haven't forgotten about them but i had this _absolutely kicking_ idea and had to share it

PENSIVE EMOJI  
Local vaporwave rock band is looking for a new member. Our drummer was finally busted for selling so many drugs. Drummer must be cool, awesome, and not a total fuckin nerd.

Apply by visiting the third practice room on the second floor of Droogs Theater on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays from 3:00 PM–7:30 PM

The strange notice was pinned to a communal cork board within Skaia College’s commons building. It was signed by no one, listed no relevant contact information, and was clearly made in less than five minutes in Microsoft Word. In all likelihood, the notice was never approved to be hung by the Student Activities Council, though it seems as if no one really cares about that particular fact. At the very least, the dubious nature of the advertisement makes it even more convenient.

Why? Because a certain young man, by the name of **KARKAT VANTAS** , just so happens to be a new member of the Skaia College community. Physically, he's unimposing. He's little more than five feet tall, sports medium brown skin, a distinctly pointed nose, and tousled (but stubbornly straight) black hair. As is usually the case, he leans a good bit of his weight on a silver forearm crutch, which he holds in his right hand. At the moment of his arrival, his jaw is set and his slate grey eyes dart erratically around the room. As far as his mental state goes, he would happily classify himself as an eager, academically inclined freshman, who's not opposed to having some quick income. So, as the page requested, he arrives at the designated location at 5:30 on Wednesday, his third day at college.

There, he’s greeted by a six-foot-tall, pale, blond-haired, shades-wearing bastard. The man sits in the hallway, facing the wall of windows, which overlook the Main Street running through the small campus. His hands are busy scribbling something in an open, tattered notebook. Yet, the minute Karkat steps into the hallway, the man pauses. He looks up, offers a brief glimmer of a shit-eating smirk, and rises to his feet. Despite this man's shades, Karkat can feel the hesitancy radiating from him.

“And Rose said no one would ever respond to my ad,” he says, his voice dripping with the thick fixings of a southern accent. His breath smells of nicotine, booze, and shitty cereal. “You here to apply for the drummer position? Dumbass bastard we originally hired can’t do it any more. So...” An apathetic shrug punctuates the statement.

Karkat, in return, sighs. He pauses to shift his weight. His shoulders lower, and his confidence in this situation wanes. Sure, he’s always wanted to be in a band, but is he really willing to be in a band that lets some stupid blond hipster oversee their auditions? “So what? I’m here to apply, and I’m greeted by... Who the actual fuck are you, anyhow?”

The other man tuts. He shakes his head and briefly lowers his shades, revealing unnatural red eyes. “Now, don’t tell me you don’t know who I am. Name’s Dave Strider, founder and lead singer _and_ keytarist for Pensive Emoji.” The absurdly enigmatic look on his face seems to grow.

“You look like the fetid, culturally stagnant garbage some clueless cat dragged in, straight from Tool Town.” Karkat folds his arms defiantly across his chest. In the man’s shades, he sees his own reflection—short, somewhat stout, and the picture of disbelief. His thick, black brows are furrowed to the point that they seem to blend together above the bridge of his prominent nose. “So, what? You want me to play some shit for you, or do you want me to follow my gut, which is telling me that money isn’t worth having to be in the same general area as you.”

Dave’s reply is spoken in perfect deadpan. “Harsh.” He’s unaffected, and his posturing offers little more to go off of. His back is straight; his shoulders, relaxed; and his hands are buried in the pockets of his tattered black jeans. “Go ‘head and play, if you want. I ain’t stoppin’ you. You have your own kit, right?”

Karkat responds with a bewildered stare, which begins locked upon Dave, and ends with the heavy hard case, in which he keeps his custom drum kit. With a determined grunt, he steps purposefully into the soundproof practice room. As he sets himself up, he's keenly aware of the fact that the man he's auditioning for has yet to so much as enter the room. When everything is set up, however, that changes.

He watches, as Dave enters behind him, noting the man’s seemingly instinctive lightness on his feet. Despite his casual demeanor, there’s a wariness to the man that a keen eye will notice; there’s a way he walks, a hesitancy in his movements, that betrays a sense of unease. When the man stops, however, he seems perfectly at peace. He adjusts his shades and rolls up the sleeves of his faded red hoodie, revealing a tattoo, which occupies most of his left forearm.

Karkat, however, isn’t interested in the tattoo. He’s intent on wiping the smug smile off this bastard’s face and, the minute the door clicks shut, he begins doing just that. He starts himself up with a basic beat, then, he lets loose.

He’d started drumming at the age of seven, prompted by his father’s suggestion. It helped him keep his irritability at bay, to some extent, and it’s a skill he’s honed through the years. Though he attended a few classes, much of what he does is self-taught; he experimented his way to a loud, bass-laced, and somewhat erratic sound. It’s a unique styling that doesn’t exactly mesh with most ensembles, but something as stupendously off-the-wall as a so-called “Vaporwave Rock” band obviously isn’t looking for something traditional. And, as Karkat winds down, it seems that this assumption was spot on.

Dave’s smirk has turned to a look of deep thought. He chews on his lip and taps his fingers against his tattooed forearm. He hums aloud, creating a hectic sound that might be more noise than music. “Well, you ain’t exactly the chillest guy I’ve ever met,” Dave mutters. He strokes his chin, which is covered in sporadic stubble, and leans his back against the wall. “You got a good sound, though. Solid beats. Fuckin’ solid as some nice, hard shit. You’ve got potential, dude, but I should give some other people a chance. I ain’t sayin’ no, but I ain’t sayin’ that you’re in yet. You feel?”

Karkat bristles at the roundabout commentary. “No, I don’t fucking ‘feel’. You make about as much sense as an intoxicated street mime.”

“That’s a damned good song name, dude. Intoxicated street mime. I’ll keep that in mind. ‘Til next time, keep my card and I’ll call ya back when I’ve made a decision.” At this point, Dave reaches into his pocket. He produces a glossy business card, which he hands to Karkat.

And, after a sarcastic smile and a curt wave, Karkat departs. He rips the card in half, shoves it into his bag, and begins to walk back to his dorm. In the pit of his stomach, he feels as if he’s just wasted a nice chunk of his time on some shithead with the musical understanding of a cockroach.

* * *

Across campus, but not too far across campus, and at a later time, **DAVE STRIDER** stands in his dorm room. His summer research project allowed him to stay on campus over the summer break, and this fact is evident by the lovely stack of old printouts of various academic papers in the corner. Empty containers of instant macaroni and cheese are stacked on his desk, forming three Leaning Towers of Health Hazards, and his laptop is covered by a pile of disorganized sheet music.

“When’re you actually going to clean up all your shit, Dave?” asks his raven-haired roommate, John, who just so happens to be a husky, naturally tan man. At this current moment in time, he’s laying on top of his lofted bed and bouncing a sky blue bouncy ball, such as one you’d usually find in vending machines, off the ceiling. His rectangular glasses hang from the side of his bed by the left arm, which is folded over the beam at the bed’s edge.

Dave, meanwhile, shrugs. “When will you fuckin’ join Pensive Emoji, Egbert? I’ll clean my side of the room when I get to it.” He shrugs and props his feet up, on his desk, before continuing, “I’ll at least throw the old food away by tomorrow. That sound peachy to you? I’m sure it sounds hella peachy, right?” He removes his shades, sets them on top of his sheet music, and presses the heels of his palms to his eyes. While he appreciated Karkat’s impassioned drum performance a short while ago, he can also feel a dull throbbing beginning at the base of his skull.

John, of course, is oblivious to this budding headache. “Sounds good to me,” he says, in his usually chipper way. He peers over the edge of his bed, revealing a pair of stunning blue eyes, and snickers. “You already tired? You didn’t even have any classes today.”

“Nah, But I had auditions.” Dave reaches into his pocket. He knows he’s now allowed to smoke in the dorms, and he’s not about to, but he’ll at least stick an unlit cigarette between his lips. It’ll save him some work later. “Not many actually good folks came. Had some crazy ass bitch who showed up, demonstrated absolutely zero talent, then puked on the floor outside of the practice room. Shit’s off the handle here, John.”

“Well, did you get anyone good?” The other young man asks, rolling back over in bed, so that he no longer testers on its edge.

Dave, in return, nods. He’s aware that he’s no longer being watched, but he doesn’t really care. “Yeah, some rude dude. Said his name was Karkat. Played drums like a fuckin’ beast.”

“Add him to the short list, then.”

“Already have, nerd.” Dave shrugs. He spins around in his seat and pulls up to his desk, whereupon he begins to make a half-hearted attempt at cleaning up.

* * *

A short distance away, and two stories above this scene, two woman are spread out on the same bed. Both are juniors at the college, and both are watching a very, very, very shitty movie. One of these women just so happens to share many physical similarities with Dave Strider. The primary differences between them appear to be the details: her hair is a richer shade of blonde, her eyes are a pinkish brown, she's curvier, and her skin isn't nearly as pale. The reason for such a striking resemblance is simply that the two are siblings, though neither would ever willingly admit to being related. In fact,  **ROSE LALONDE** often does her best to  _avoid_ any mention of her blood ties to Dave Strider.

Beside Rose, and also laying slightly atop her, is her girlfriend, Kanaya Maryam. Her skin is the antithesis of her lover's, a rich, deep brown. Likewise, her hair, comprised of tight black curls, is also a counterpoint. Her wide, flat, and perfectly rounded nose complements her more oval-shaped face. Right now, as she lounges against the cinder block wall, she keeps her gaze locked on the computer screen. Bits of popcorn have spilled onto her chest, though she seems wholly unaware and blissfully uncaring of this fact. “Why did I agree to watch this bullshit with you, dear Rose?” she inquires, quirking her brow.

In reply, her girlfriend shrugs. “You said it was movie night, then told me to show the worst movie I know of. This is Dave's favorite movie.”

“Your brother has a taste in media that is more or less the same as his taste in clothing,” Kanaya grumbles as she buries her face in her hands. “I truly wish for this torture to end soon. How much longer is this?”

Leaning across the small gap between the bed and the desk, Rose moves the cursor. The bar at the bottom of the screen informs the pair that they still have one whole hour remaining of their chosen film. Parroting this fact, Rose speaks up, saying, “One hour, my love. We could always stop and watch something that's actually worth our time. Might I suggest something more adventurous, such as  _Mad Max: Fury Road_? That's always a good choice.”

It doesn't take much thought for Kanaya to come to a conclusion. She offers an eager nod. “Absolutely. Count me in. Anything to relieve me of watching this mindless garbage.”

“Yes,  _Phantom of the Paradise_ is... something. At the very least, and to sound somewhat complimentary towards my idiotic brother's favorite film, it's interesting.” Rose shrugs. She rolls her eyes and steps off of the bed. After ducking beneath the bed, she begins to peruse her film collection. “It's interesting in all the wrong ways, of course...”

“I fucking concur,” Kanaya grumbles. She reaches over, grabs another handful of popcorn, and shoves it into her mouth.

* * *

Back on ground level, and a fair distance away, but still within the same timeframe, a group of four people inhabit a dorm room. All four are close friends, and all four are also engaged in separate activities.

The foremost of the group is a black-haired man by the name of **KEITH KOGANE**. He is an amibitious sophomore (having skipped a year) at the school, and his study is focused primarily within the realm of robotics.

Right now, he is clad in a red t-shirt and white boxer shorts. He stares upward, to the projected image on the ceiling, which just so happens to be a four-way game of _Mario Kart 8 Deluxe._ He’s playing as Bowser, and he’s currently in third place.

Ahead of him in the game is his friend, Hunk, a larger man with broad shoulders and tan skin. His tongue is sticking out a bit, and his fingers fly wildly across the buttons.

And, ahead of Hunk, is Pidge, who just so happens to be a strawberry blonde with a fiery personality. Her glasses are slightly crooked, and her attentions are entirely absorbed by the game.

Behind all of them, in fourth place, is Lance Sanchez a tall, slender man with skin that’s not nearly as pale as Pidge’s, but not as dark as Hunk’s. His tousled brown hair hangs slightly in his face, and his blue eyes are locked on the makeshift screen. “How are you all so far ahead of me!?” he groans.

“It’s not hard, Lance, especially when you don’t suck,” Pidge shrugs. She rolls the grape lollipop in her mouth from one side to the other. A wide smirk spreads across her face, and her character, Peach, giggles as the kart accelerates around the corner. “Look, just accept that you’re shit at this game. Everyone else has.”

“Yeah! I just like the fun noises,” Hunk hums.

Keith remains silent. From his spot on the top bunk, above Lance, he smirks. He’s aware that he’s not the best at this game, but he will always enjoy watching Lance lose his ever-loving shit.

Lance, meanwhile, lets forth a low growl. His brows furrow, and his jaw sets. Keith knows him well enough; he knows that Lance is investing every ounce of his being into winning this pointless party game.

Clearly, if the beginning of this year is worth anything, this is going to be an interesting few months.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading the intro to this idea! i have no idea where this fic is going (as per usual) and i welcome comments and feedback! as usual, feel free to also point out typos and shit. you can catch more of me on [**my blog**](http://godtiermeme.tumblr.com) or **[my art blog](http://tt40art.tumblr.com)**!


	2. Ue o Muite Arukō (Sukiyaki)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **[Ue o Muite Arukō (Sukiyaki)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=C35DrtPlUbc)** by Kyu Sakamoto  
>  _Sukiyaki and Other Japanese Hits_ (1963)

The first Saturday morning of a particular, but otherwise unspecified, year at Skaia College is neither cold nor hot. The temperature is pleasant, perfectly poised between the two aforementioned extremes, and the conditions are ideal. The sun is shining brightly, and the wind keeps the otherwise warm day from actually becoming warm. It is the sort of day that most people live for, and the exact variety of day that  **DAVE STRIDER** explicitly avoids. It not only exacerbates his already less-than-ideal visual problems, but also his sensitive skin.

At this very moment, Dave is pensively studying a page of notebook paper, on which he's scribbled his thoughts about the people he's seen thus far in auditions. Few of them have truly impressed him, though he still has them written down; everyone deserves some sort of chance, he supposes.

Currently, and with the need to find a replacement drummer becoming an increasingly crucial issue, there are only two top contenders. The first is a man by the name of Hunk. He's charismatic enough, and his drumming skills are fair, but Dave has a feeling he wouldn't mesh well with the group. He's not sure why he has this feeling, only that the nagging sensation exists. The second contender also happens to be the first person to apply.

For the umpteenth time this week—or, rather, the past few days—he stares at the profile he’d written up. As per usual. his writing stands out as cramped, rounded red lettering against stark white. (For a reason beyond his understanding, he's always preferred red pens. It matters not if it's a gel or ink pen, simply that it is a red pen. Such a practice invariably infuriated his instructors, yet he remained indifferent to such indignation. Red pens are _where it's at_ , and he will die by that personal belief.)

“Karkat Vantas,” the name stands out above the rest of the page. Beside it, he's attached a photo he printed from his computer. (After all, he might as well start learning names now. Regardless of whether or not he hires this guy as the new drummer, it never hurts to have connections.) Studying this photo, which was lifted from Facebook, he has to admit that Karkat is pretty damn attractive. His jawline is strong, yet it still meshes well with his otherwise rounded face. Following this introductory information, he's jotted down some of the info given to him during the audition. Or, rather, he's copied what he found scribbled on a piece of paper he'd found in the practice room after the fact.

AGE: 18, Freshman.  
EXPERIENCE: “A whole fucking lot, you cow turd.”  
OWNS A DRUM KIT: Yes - Looks like a custom setup?  
NEEDS TRANSPORTATION: “I own my own fucking car, I'm not a troglodyte.”  
CONTACT INFO: Pesterchum username - carcinoGeneticist  
NOTES: Plays fuckin' great, but has one hell of an attitude. This guy'll be funner to mess with than Rose. Maybe twisted his ankle recently? I don't fuckin' know.

A long, thoughtful sigh escapes Dave. As he taps the eraser end of his pencil against his desk, he considers the options before him. Both men are perfectly capable drummers, and they each have their own personal draws. Hunk seems as if he'd be easier to work with than pre-prepared sheet music. Karkat, however, has a spark of inner _something_ that just seems to burn up the entire room. There's a passion there that words can't explain, and neither Dave nor the narrator would ever dare to attempt such a feat. At the end of all of this, it really boils down to little more than personal preference...

 

About an hour after this last-minute evaluation, and a short walk away, in the campus' student commons building, Dave Strider plans to formally meet the man he plans to name Pensive Emoji's new drummer. He's already extended an invitation to him, which was met with begrudging acceptance, and, now, he waits. He may have already met Karkat during the preliminary audition, but, now, he has set aside time to actually get to know him.

Karkat arrives about six minutes after the designated time for the rendezvous. As he had before, he limps along awkwardly with his crutch, and his left foot seems to drag behind him more often than it rises properly. The shadows beneath his eyes are dark and, when he sits, it takes a few seconds for his breathing to settle to a resting pace. Nevertheless, he offers what seems to be a characteristically harsh greeting, “So, what? I'm guessing you're here to tell me that it was wonderful to meet me and all that nice shit, right? Then, you'll tell me you found someone else for the position, and you hope that I have a peachy time hunting for other jobs?”

“Well, fuck, hi to you, too,” Dave responds. Despite his best efforts, a hint of shock works its way into his voice. “Actually, what I was gonna' say is that you've got the job. First gig'll be in a few days, but the details ain't entirely hammered out yet. We're getting there, though, so there's that. Uh... So...” There's an awkward pause, during which Dave evaluates the situation. He's never been good at making friends; apparently, having your brother lock you inside every second you aren't in school is bad for your social development. Right now, there's a singular question on his mind, and it's burning a hole in his skull. Obviously, he could keep his curiosities to himself, but, then, that wouldn't be very characteristic of him. So, instead, he opens his mouth, and the words tumble out with all the grace of a dying fruit fly. “You sprain your ankle or something?”

As one would expect, Karkat responds with slack-jawed shock. As the band leader's words settle in his mind, his brows knit together. “You're a stupid, insensitive fucker, aren't you?”

“Huh?” Dave, too, takes a minute to process the reply. For the briefest of moments, his otherwise stoic expression falters, and a small frown crosses his face. “Oh... Uh...”

“You'll find it out, anyhow, so I might as well let this screaming feline out of the metaphorical sack, right?” Karkat doesn't wait for an answer to his question. Rather, he presses his hands against the table. A huff of exertion escapes him as he pulls himself to his feet, leveraging himself, too, against the half-wall to his right. “I'm not going to enthrall you with all the banalities of my miserable life, but I'll tell you what you're asking about. I'm a genetic anomaly. When I was born, I spun the wheel and it landed on 'Fuck you!' What you need to know about that is absolutely nothing, and it baffles the hell out of me that I'm even bothering to tell you all this, so I'll leave it at answering exactly what you fucking stupidly asked, okay? No, I didn't sprain my ankle.” By now, he's managed to squeeze himself out of the booth. He grabs his ID from his pocket and twirls it between his fingers as he continues, now speaking about a completely different topic, “I'm getting my lunch. I'll use a bonus swipe to get you something, too.”

“Oh.” By now, the implications of the rant have hit Dave. The force of the realization is about equal to that of a train hitting a brick wall, and it feels quite similar. An otherwise ever-churning mind has come to an unexpected halt, and it takes several seconds for it to return to a salvageable state. After a brief scramble, Dave sputters out an embarrassed answer to the unspoken question. “I'll take a bacon cheeseburger.”

A nod serves as confirmation. Karkat turns and, with little difficulty, makes his way to the line. He places the order, retrieves the brown paper bag, in which both his order—a tuna sandwich—and Dave's are stored. Upon his return, this vessel is unceremoniously dropped on the table, and the bearer immediately drops onto the bench seat. He shoves his hand in and retrieves his lunch long before Dave even has a chance to process what is happening.

In fact, by the time Dave has begun eating, there has already been a period of seven minutes of tense silence.

This oppressive atmosphere is broken, however, by an offhanded comment. Not that the additional input lightens the mood; in fact, it only serves to sour it further. “I'd make plans to have a new drummer lined up in about a decade, if this stupid group even lasts that long. The meat of the bullshit about me is that I'm on a steady downhill slope. Don't expect me to be around for very long, at least on the standard human scale.”

“Implying you ain't human,” Dave jokes. Outwardly, he's deadpan; however, he longs for some reprieve from the thick, unyielding atmosphere that currently chokes his few shreds of social common sense.

Karkat, it seems, is having none of it. He offers a snort of mirthless laughter, shovels the last of his sandwich into his mouth, and once again rises to his feet. This time, he takes a bit longer. “Whatever. Just send me details about the gig, and I'll make my way there somehow. I've got better things to do with my time than whatever sort of awkward piece-of-shit rodeo this is.” With this said, he departs.

And, stunned, Dave does little more than watch the man's receding figure.

* * *

At a point in the future that is not very far from the disastrous social blunders of Dave Strider, **ROSE LALONDE** decides to take a walk around campus. In fact, at the moment we join her jaunt, she has been walking for about ten minutes. So far, she has seen five dogs and, of course, umpteen students enjoying the ideal weather conditions of the day. She, too, is enjoying them. Unlike her brother, she has always been a lover of nature. In fact, she's admiring the blue tulips, which line paths to the campus' central fountain, when her attentions are drawn away by a loud thud, which is promptly followed an odd commotion.

“Oh, fuck.” The source of the first discernible comment is a short woman, with slightly curled, strawberry blonde hair. Freckles are dusted across her face, and concentrated over the bridge of her nose, though her entire visage is currently colored a bright pink. Her left hand holds what appears to be a hacked together remote control, presumably for a model car, and her right hand is busy adjusting her round spectacles. “Well... the targeting AI works...”

A low growl serves as the response to this commentary, and it originates from an understandably disgruntled man, who just so happens to be sprawled out on the ground. “Fucking lovely to know that your death car has a _targeting protocol_ in place,” he growls. After a few seconds, he grabs a crutch and, planting it firmly on the ground, begins to stagger to his feet. “‘Go outside,’ Sollux said. ‘It's good for your health,’ Sollux said. I'm never listening to that lisping dumbass again!”

By now, Rose has closed in on the scene of the accident. The lack of blood on the ground indicates that there are no major injuries, though it seems that the source of the problem is still firmly in place. It appears to be a homemade battle robot, presumably mounted upon some sort of remote-control motor, and shaped very much like a standard cube. An empty slot in the front seems to indicate that the nervous-looking owner at least had the common sense to remove its primary weapon.

And, on the topic of the owner, she is currently offering her hand as a sign of goodwill. “I'm Pidge Gunderson, by the way, and what hit you in the shin was my newest version of Rover. Sorry for the... uh... targeting error,” she says. When she continues speaking, her voice is marked by a mix of embarrassment and excitement. ”I mean, it wasn't _really_ an error. You _are_ a valid target, not that I meant for it to come after you. I tried to redirect it, so it looks like I'll have to tweak the controls.”

As the discussion continues, the man hesitantly accepts the handshake. Slate grey eyes warily study the robotics enthusiast before him and, after a moment of silence, he, too, speaks up. His cadence is smooth and refined, yet his voice has a somewhat gravelly, nasal quality. “Karkat Vantas.”

The name clicks in Rose's mind. Now, she approaches. “You're the new drummer, right? For Pensive Emoji?”

Karkat's expression shifts to pure befuddlement. His mouth opens, as if to speak, but ends up simply hanging in this position, as if to invite flies inside.

“I'm in the band, by the way,” Rose backtracks. “My name is Rose Lalonde. I'm Dave's sister, and I'm the violinist. My girlfriend, Kanaya, is the bassist. Or, at least, she is when Jade isn't covering. I understand this is an excessive amount of information to take in at this time, so I'll cease my pointless prattling. I simply wanted to welcome you to the band. From what Dave tells me, you're an exceptionally gifted drummer.”

With what is, on the surface, a disinterested huff, Karkat turns his face away from Rose. Beneath this, however, Rose can read his embarrassment. (She is, after all, training to be a psychologist.) “Thanks. You seem less like a massive tool than your brother, so I'll give you that.” He shifts his weight and flexes the hand resting on the crutch's grip. “Look, I have God-fucking-knows-how-many things I have to get done, and this is biting a gaping hole in my available time, so...” Turning away from the group, he begins to depart. As he does so, he grumbles the rest of his statement, “Thanks for a whole lot of fucking nothing, and I'll see both of you whenever the fuck I do. Goodbye.”

Rose shrugs. She is entirely unfazed by the unusual interaction.

Pidge obviously is, too, as she has already returned to her prior activity. She sits in the grass, cross-legged, and studies her robot, which is now flipped upside-down.

“Pleasant man,” Rose comments.

“Mm-hm,” Pidge acknowledges.


	3. Strawberry Fields Forever

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **[Strawberry Fields Forever](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NN9iogpzVhc)** by Jim Sturgess and Joe Anderson  
>  _Across the Universe_ [Soundtrack] (2007)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [dabbing furiously] what am i doing? **i don't know!!!!**

Professor  **TAKASHI SHIROGANE** is a tall, muscular, and wide-shouldered man. His hair is, oddly enough, pure white, yet his face is youthful. In fact, across campus, he's known as the youngest professor in the college's history, and, among students, he's known to catch the attentions of many women. He is, however, very gay. Furthermore, he will be the first to tell you that he is happily married to his high school sweetheart, Adam, and that he does not and will not involve himself in romances with students,  _thank you very much_.

At this current moment, he stands at the front of his classroom, in the campus' Billiards Hall (and, to be more precise, room 5), ready and eager for the second week of this entirely nonspecific school year. As he always does, he watches the students file in. This class is fairly standard, as far as its composition and makeup goes, though he's taken an interest in three students. The first of the three is someone he already knows; Keith Kogane is both a not-very-distant-but-not-exactly-close cousin, and one of his many high school tutoring subjects. The other two, however, are unknowns to him. One of them is a girl—Pidge Gunderson, according to the roll; the other is a male, listed as Karuna Vantas, but with the addendum that he prefers to be called Karkat. His reasoning for such watchfulness over this pair varies, of course. His interest in Pidge is due to her already-advanced understanding of programming; in all honesty, he's fairly certain she should have tested out of this course. Karkat, meanwhile, simply stands out from the crowd. Aside from obvious physical differences, the young man is, like Keith, brash and stubborn.

“I trust everyone went through their textbook and read the assigned pages for today,” Shiro says and, of course, only  _after_ everyone has entered the room. He visually skims the audience, and the blank looks on their faces tell the story. “Okay, that's a resounding ‘no’ from everyone. Well, whatever. I'll be telling you everything the book says.” At this point, Shiro steps aside and begins to walk to his computer, which is set up next to the podium. Before he moves, however, he realizes exactly what he said; he backtracks. “Of course, I'm not saying to  _not_ read your textbooks. I'm just saying that, if you don't, you aren't going to fail. Your grade will just be lower, okay? Is that clear? Awesome!”

His speech is, as usual, met with silence.

This is his job, though, and he's being paid to teach a group of apathetic young adults basic introductory programming. Thus, after taking a sip from his coffee-filled thermos, he continues, “Fire up your computers, and we'll get this shit started. Since the first two classes were focused on going over the basics of this class, this is our first formal lesson.

“Today, we'll be starting off slow. If you  _did_ read your textbook, then just raise your hand and finish my sentence.” Here, Shiro pauses. He reevaluates what he's said. It occurs to him that he's talking to college students, and the strict dictatorial order of hand-raising is likely somewhat beneath them. He amends his instructions, “Actually, if you feel like it, you can just blurt out the answer. So, my statement is: ‘The print function is used to...’” Now, he pauses. Again, his eyes scan the crowd.

Several students are obviously playing games or using their phones, while others flip frantically through their books. Interestingly enough, Pidge seems wholly disengaged. Her eyes are locked on the computer, though she seems to be doing something  _other_ than programming something as basic as the print function; no one needs to type as much as she is for something like that.

A long, reluctant sigh escapes Shiro. If this is anything to go by, this is just going to be another of those classes. He opens his mouth to say something, only to be interrupted by a rough, nasal voice. “It prints a phrase, hence the f—” there's a pause, then, the reply concludes, “—I mean, that's why it's called ‘print’.”

It takes a moment for Shiro to process what's been said. He's never before been spoken to so casually during class, and, while it doesn't bother him, it  _is_ jarring. “Who was that?”

Karkat raises his hand.

Shiro, meanwhile, nods. “Yeah, awesome!” He notes the participation, placing a tally mark beside Karkat's name on today's roll, “The print function is used to output text. There's a lot of nitty-gritty technicalities attached to it, but we're not going to worry about all that for now. In fact, right now, I'd like for all of you to engage in your first in-class assignment. This shouldn't take long. Write me five different print codes. They can say anything they want, and you'll submit them through the SkaiaNet portal. If you need help using that, feel free to ask. While you're working, I'll just wander around and make sure no one is slacking off  _too_ much. Everyone clear on that?” As he always has, Shiro also writes the assignment on the whiteboard. Today, he's feeling bold; he uses one of the nicer red erasable markers. “Five codes, make 'em say whatever you want!”

Once the assignment has been given and everyone appears to be working, Shiro follows through on his promise and begins patrolling the room. Considering the simplicity of this lesson, the lack of questioning is understandable. Everyone seems to be working diligently, though a few of the more ambitious pupils begin asking him about inputting apostrophes within the phrase. Pidge, meanwhile, has managed to churn out her assignment in a large clear font, which, aside from opening in an entirely different window, also flashes rainbow colors. “Oh shit, waddup, Professor Shirogane?” pulsates on the screen. Directly to her left, Karkat has also done a bit more than asked; “Why am I taking programming?” is displayed in red on his screen.

This semester is obviously going to be interesting, especially with two smart-asses in the class.

* * *

Several hours after Professor Shirogane's class occurs, a group of five musicians meet in the soundproof second floor study room of the Armstrong dormitory building. Of the four fluorescent tube lights, only two work, and, out of those, one of them is flickering.

Each of the five musicians are already known to us, and each carries their own distinct instrument. Self-proclaimed leader of the band, Dave Strider, obviously, has his keytar, though he's also proficient with a regular guitar, should the need arise. Rose specializes in violin, Kanaya works the bass, and... Well, at the current moment, the drummer is missing. Considering the fact that the practice session was slotted to begin ten minutes ago, this is a problem.

It just so happens, however, that  **KARKAT VANTAS** was, indeed, on time. For the past ten minutes, he's been standing at the bottom of a formidable staircase and contemplating his options. He  _could_ risk damage to both himself and his costly custom drum kit by trying to make it up said stairway. And, in fact, to avoid any more contact with Dave than is absolutely necessary, he did try. He managed to make it about a quarter of the way up before realizing that this particular idea was stupid as fuck and turning back around. His second option is to contact his roommate, Sollux, whom he knows to be asleep. His final and, quite annoyingly, final option is to call his new band leader and inform him of the situation.

“Yo, loser, where the fuck are ya'? We've been waiting around in the room for—” Dave answers.

Karkat interjects. Normally, he'd try and keep the edge off of his voice. He's been working on calming his volatile temper lately, but, at this moment, his budding anger management skills aren't the most important things on his mind. “How fucking  _dense_ are you!?” he snaps.

There's a huff of confusion, a grunt, and a sigh. “I...  _Shit._ You need some help?”

“No, I'm calling because I'm suddenly as limber as a toddler, and I'm bounding up the stairs fifteen at a time.  _Of-fucking-course_. I can get upstairs, but your clueless ass can certainly come get my damned drums.”

“Yeah. Uh. Fuck. Shit. Sure.” Dave's end of the line goes dead. Less than a minute passes between this and the arrival of the blond bastard, still sporting his inscrutable shades. He springs down the stairs, moving with the speed and ease of a trained dancer, and grabs the case, which he promptly rushes to the top of the stairs. Afterwards, he turns around. He appears to be ready to say something, only to say absolutely nothing. Instead, he stares awkwardly at Karkat, only occasionally turning away.

In the minute it takes Karkat to scale the steps, his disdain for his newfound boss has only deepened. He brushes past the man, grabs onto the handle of his case, and pulls it behind him as he enters the room. There, he's promptly greeted by Rose and Kanaya, both of whom he has immediately deemed far more bearable than Dave. Customary greetings, none of which are entirely relevant to this particular story, are exchanged and, afterwards, the group commences their practice.

Things run smoothly, and it seems as if the group gels well together in a musical sense. The conclusion of the session is the announcement of the group's first performance together, which will be held in three days. Furthermore, Karkat Vantas has decided one thing: Dave Strider is an absolutely irredeemable and unlovable bastard.

* * *

**DAVE STRIDER** stands in his dorm room, with his elbows leaning on the window ledge, and the top half of his body outside. He's not supposed to be smoking in his room; the sign out front actually says he shouldn't be smoking within 200 feet of the building, actually, but he needs a cigarette before he goes absolutely batshit, and it just so happens that John doesn't care what he's doing. (“As long as you don't burn down the building, it's whatever, Dave.”)

“How's the new band member?” John asks. He leans back in his desk chair and props his feet up, on his desk, and sticks the pen in his hand behind his ear. “Karkat, right?” Like the whimsical child he is, on the inside, he pushes his feet against the desk, propelling the chair away. He then uses his feet to spin around. “Mmm. Yeah, this is productive.”

Dave, meanwhile, rubs the back of his neck. At this current moment, he isn't actually looking at his friend and roommate. Actually, he's staring at the sky, in which a pair of birds happen to be circling. In the back of his mind, he wonders what they're looming over. “He's good at his job. Seems like he hates me, though, but I'm fine with fuckin' with him, instead, so...”

“Sounds kinda' gay, Dave,” snickers the raven-haired man currently spinning in the middle of the room. “Really, though, Rose's been telling me what's been happening. Sounds to me like you're just making a lot of mistakes.”

“I'm so fuckin' glad you're confident in my social skills, Egbert.” Here, Dave pauses. It suddenly dawns upon him that he's hungry. He carefully puts out his cigarette, places it in his pocket, and wanders over to the mini fridge, which sits in the middle of the room. He pulls out a box of frozen dinosaur nuggets, dumps a few onto a paper plate, and shoves them into the microwave with unbridled disinterest. It's not as if he really cares what Karkat thinks of him (even if he does), but... “Oh, shit, did you want anything?”

“I went with Terezi and Vriska to get dinner at Chic-fil-A.”

“Oh.” A nod. A flicker of a small smile. As he waits for his meal, Dave buries his hands in his pockets. “There's a Chic-fil-A around here?”

John laughs. The sound in absolutely no way bothers Dave (except for the fact that it sends a shiver down his spine). It's not a graceful sound; John's laugh has always been addled with snorts. When this subsides, he responds, “Yeah, doofus, it's just down the street.”

“Oh,” repeats Dave. A long sigh escapes him, and he turns back toward the window.


	4. Tomorrow Never Knows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **[Tomorrow Never Knows](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3Z9cnZkqWvU)** by The Beatles  
>  _Revolver_ (1966)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as per usual, comments, feedback, and pointing out typos is always welcome and appreciated! thanks for reading! ♥

The second Wednesday of what has been established as a nonspecific year begins normally enough for **DAVE STRIDER**. As before, he has no classes. Much of his morning is spent, instead, finishing up the minimal homework he's been assigned. Then, he occupies himself with a new task, that of finding some sort of common ground between himself and Karkat. Now, on the most superficial level possible, he doesn't really care  _what_ the other man thinks of him; his main goal is to make sure the band meshes well together. After all, a band that stays together plays together. (At least, that's what he once read in some random book about forming a band...)

His first step in this mission is to get Karkat to talk to him. As such, he's brought a peace offering to this meeting. Somewhere down the grape vine, he heard that Karkat is a massive fan of cheesecake. To appease this whim, he's driven across town, to the only Cheesecake Factory within a reasonable distance, and purchased a whole goddamned cake. He wasn't sure what type of cake to purchase, so he's placed his bets in the chocolate boat. Now, an incredibly expensive cheesecake, placed upon a cheap cafeteria table, separates him from his glaring drummer.

“You dragged me out here to give me a cake?” Karkat's voice is as rough as ever, but there seems to be a hint of curiosity beneath it. He's obviously unsure of what to think, and his words only confirm this. “Why're you giving this to me, anyhow?”

“Oh, I dunno',” Dave lies. He folds his arms across his chest and redirects his gaze. He tries his best to focus on something other than the line of Karkat's jaw, or how his hair moves at the slightest of provocations. “I guess I'm just trying to welcome you to the band, and we  _do_ have a gig tonight... So...” his voice trails off, and he anxiously rubs the back of his neck. “Uh...”

“God, you might  _act_ like the coolest thing since pre-cut bread, but you're the most clueless, socially inept bastard I've ever met.” Despite his words, there's laughter in Karkat's voice.

This only serves to confuse Dave. Why would Karkat laugh? This question has taken up refuge in the large majority of his mind. The situation baffles him. If anyone were to speak to him like this before, it would have meant a beatdown. Criticism should, as far as Dave is concerned, be met with immediate punishment. A poorly received paper results in a low grade; acting out at home would bring physical reprimand. What's currently happening doesn't align with any of his preconceived notions of how the world should work, and that, not surprisingly, bothers the hell out of him.

And, perhaps (and, most definitely) Karkat knows this. His laughter fades, and his expression returns to its usual state, which happens to be a slight scowl. Inquisitive grey eyes scan Dave over, seeming to take in every detail, before more is said. “Thanks for the cake. I'll keep it, obviously, because what sort of ingrate would throw it out? I'm just saying that you're acting really fucking suspicious. You might as well have tattooed ‘I'm feeling guilty’ across your forehead.”

“Maybe,” Dave responds, yet he remains tight-lipped. Sure, he feels guilty. He's keenly aware of how he's managed to piss off his new drummer twice in his first week. While he may not have a personal investment in Karkat, he has a monetary one; he can't afford to cancel more gigs to find a new  _new_ drummer. He's already lost out on two, and, as the school year wears on, he knows he'll start losing even more to academic obligations. Of course, it's common knowledge that telling people you're being nice to them so you can make money is a bad idea, so Dave refrains from doing so. Instead, he changes the subject. “Your drum kit looks like a custom rig,” he comments.

This seems to light a fire in Karkat; there's a spark in his eye that has yet to be seen until now. He grins, and pride oozes from his every pore. “I saved up enough in high school to buy it. Pretty standard setup, except for the cymbals. Those fuckers pack a double punch, and no one would ever know, unless they jammed their over-curious visages underneath.”

“Really?” Normally, Dave would be saying this with a purely falsified sense of intrigue. At this time, however, he finds himself inexplicably invested in Karkat's commentary. Perhaps it's the pure enthusiasm he's speaking with; or, maybe, the topic of music is simply enthralling. Whatever the case may be, Dave can't help but listen and hang on to every word.

“There are triggers under those for a synthesizer to mimic the bass drum. If you haven't fucking noticed, my feet aren't exactly tap dancing across the great stage of life, so it's easier for me to play it that way,” Karkat shrugs. “Where's the gig tonight? I need to plan some shit ahead of time.”

“Capezio Diner. It's this kinda' hole-in-the-wall little place, you'd never see it 'less you were lookin' for it. They're a kind of dive place. Local groups are their jam.”

“Fair enough. And, obviously, _you're_ not solving any problems, so I'll just punch all the numbers into my access calculator at some point later today.”

“It's a one-story place. No stairs. Ain't even a porch at that place,” Dave responds quicker than he probably should have. He finds himself pulling at loose threads on his shirt. “I... uh... I mean, it's all to make sure we've got shit hammered out flatter than the smoothest metal ass, of course, but do you mind if I ask you a few questions?”

There's a momentary pause. Karkat responds with a wary side-eyed glance, which is accompanied by a thoughtful hum. After the moment of this pause has passed, however, he offers a small nod. “I know I'm going to regret this later, but go for it. Blow yourself the fuck away.”

Dave opens his mouth, yet he finds the words catching in his throat. He knows what he's going to say; he's spent hours working on exactly _how_ to say it, too, and that's not something he normally does. Yet, now that push has come to metaphorical shove, he can't get his footing. All his practice falls away, and he eventually ends up falling back on an old bad habit. What comes from his mouth is a stuttering, botched rendition of an otherwise carefully constructed and delicately worded inquiry, “You ain't exactly running marathons, are you?” As soon as it's left his mouth, of course, Dave begins to backpedal faster than a bewildered politician. “I mean... You... I was asking for... uh...”

Karkat, however, seems to let the question roll off of him. “That's an immensely crude way of phrasing that, but you're right. And that's probably the first and only time anything to froth out of that gaping, shitty maw of yours has ever been true. So con-fucking-gratulations, Strider, you've won a ticket to Fuck You Town.” Sarcastic clapping punctuates the commentary. After a few seconds, Karkat moves on, continuing, “Anyhow, it doesn't fucking matter. How long I'll still be ambulating in a passably normal manner is up in the air, probably floating so damned high it's past our technological limits. NASA couldn't even land a space probe on that guesstimate during our lifetime. I'm a genetic clusterfuck, right? Laugh it up at this dude. Scientists fucking love him!”

“I mean... I was just asking to know for future reference where gigs would be booked,” Dave mutters.

After a long, heavy sigh, Karkat seems to settle. He closes his eyes, takes a few deep breathes, and pinches the bridge of his nose. When he finally speaks again, he seems to avoid Dave's gaze. “Book them wherever you fucking want, Strider. I don't give a damn.”

“You sure 'bout that?”

“I am as sure as I'll ever be about that,” Karkat snaps. At this point, he leans against the table. Today, it seems to Dave as if he's moving slower than before. It takes him a few tries to stand and, when he does, he sways uncertainly on his feet. After this, though, he seems confident. He grabs the cake in his free hand, turns, and departs with only one further comment, “Thanks for the dessert, by the way. I'll accept it as an apology for the garbage you're spewing.”

Dave, meanwhile, remains dumbfounded, glued to his seat, and unsure of exactly what to make of Karkat.

 

Hours later, but still with at least an hour to go before the performance, Dave arrives at the night's venue. He parks his car out back, as directed, and wanders inside to see what the crowd is like. There aren't many people, but it isn't exactly a barren wasteland, either. In total, Dave counts about fourty people. It's the perfect balance between an intimate musical experience and a nice crowd.

Of course, he doesn't immediately spot anyone from the band. So, he does what he always has; he uses his brother’s old driver's license to get some booze and downs a drink to calm his nerves. Not that he would ever be nervous about a performance, no, never! He simply happens to be nervous about every performance he ever goes through with.

“I won't tell anyone, but I know you’re not old enough to be legally imbibing that bullshit, Strider.” The voice is crisp and clear, but the terminology is an even bigger giveaway.

Startled, Dave turns. As he expected, Karkat stands before him. He's using two crutches, rather than one, and the shadows under his eyes have grown unnaturally dark; now, they look a whole lot like poorly rendered video game shading. Rather than his usual clothes, he's wearing a short-sleeved black shirt, which exposes surprisingly lean, muscular arms. (On second thought, Dave supposes this isn't  _so_ shocking; if Karkat uses crutches as often as he seems to, it should only be natural.) On the front of this shirt is the image of what appears to be the astrological symbol for Cancer.

“Before you open your mouth and spew more characteristically un-insightful, prattling bullshit, I'll answer your question. I showed up here about an hour ago. The drums are set up, and everything else is ready to go. They obviously questioned my credentials, and I responded with a notice of ‘Fuck you, I could care less about your infinitesimally tiny brains’. Our pay is in cash, and I've already evenly divided it up. It's in the break room.”

“Awesome. You're already doin' way more than Gamzee ever did, so it looks like you were a great pick.” Though he tries for a reassuring smile, Dave's face turns to something more akin to the grimace one might make when extremely constipated. He is blithely unaware of this fact, however, as most of his conscious mind is occupied by not staring at Karkat's physique.

* * *

As has been previously established, the performance by Pensive Emoji begins one hour after Dave Strider's arrival. As we have also learned, the venue is primarily occupied by drunk thirty-somethings, many of whom are white collar workers looking for little more than a calm wind-down from a hectic day of work. Some of the patrons are, however, different. Among this standout group is an individual to whom we have yet to pay much attention. **LANCE SANCHEZ** just so happens to have been dragged to this performance by his freshly-minted and all-natural, free range hipster boyfriend, Keith. He has no prior experience with this band, aside from their independently released albums, which he's heard from time to time in Keith's company.

To say that Lance _likes_ the group is a bit of a stretch. He has tolerated their music for the sake of a massive, obvious crush. Vaporwave rock—or whatever the hell Pensive Emoji is  _supposed_ to be, or claims to be—is not his style. No, Lance is a jazz and salsa person. He likes his music upbeat, lively, and filled with rhythm. This? This is most definitely not that. And, as the performance begins, this is only confirmed. The music is standard, run-of-the-mill rock, albeit with artificial effects overlaid, presumed as a courtesy of the lead singer, Dave Strider.

Nonetheless, Keith is enthralled. “They've got some fucking awesome music, dude. Lighten up some.” He leans across the table and awkwardly pats his boyfriend on the shoulder. This makes a second thing apparent to Lance: his boyfriend is an awkward mess. “Why would you bring me to this place if you don't even like their music?”

“It's not that I don't like their music,” Lance protests. He tries his best to strike a balance between being loud enough for his voice to carry over the music, yet soft enough that no one who cares can hear him. “It's just that it's not the type of stuff I'd usually listen to. This is  _your_ weird melody baby, dude, not mine! Don't drag me into it.”

“... Please, never say that again. ‘Weird melody baby’ is the worst thing I have ever heard in my life.”

“Okay, well, that's what it is. You said you liked them, so I brought you. And—”

Without obvious provocation, Keith interjects. His eyes are narrowed, and his gaze is focused on the drummer. “Hey, wait. Isn't that the guy Pidge said she ran into with Rover a few days ago?” His naturally tapered black eyebrows are pressed together, forming a line of intense scrutiny just above the bridge of his nose. “Holy shit, it is. God. Fuck. Of course Pidge would run over the new drummer for one of the best bands on my playlist right now.”

At this point, Lance can't help but laugh. Closer study reveals that the drummer is, indeed, a perfect match to the description Pidge had given after the fact. “He is!” He continues laughing, in spite of his boyfriend's obvious embarrassment. “Chill out, though. He probably doesn't even remember it.”

“But  _I_ do,” Keith protests. His hands tangle themselves in his thick hair. “Next time I see Pidge, I'm going to kick her ass.”

“Fair enough.” Lance shrugs. He peruses the small, laminated menu in front of him. Once he's found his preferred meal, he sets it down. “I'm getting the club sandwich. What about you?”

There's a brief pause, though the silence between the two men is amicable; it's a far cry from the tension between another pair of men, with whom the audience should be quite familiar. After this momentary lapse in the discussion, Keith seems to settle on something. “The mushroom bites look good.”

“Mushroom bites?” Lance snatches up his menu once more and begins to frantically search its contents. “Hot shit, Keith, those're the sort of crap Hunk gets. I mean—” he begins to quote the description, “‘Sauteed mushrooms, stuffed with an herb-crusted mixture of cheese, bacon, tomatoes, and mild peppers‘. This is some fancy stuff, and... OH FUCK. It's ten dollars for a serving?”

A small smirk crosses Keith's face. He folds his arms atop the table and moves his head, so that some of his hair falls away from his eyes. “Don't take me out if you don't have the dough, dude,” he retorts, snickering. Nonetheless, after he's amused himself, he tacks on an addendum, “Really, Lance, I didn't think you'd pay for everything. You already drove here and paid for my soda, so I was going to buy this. If you want to buy me something to appease your freaky little ego, though, you can get me a plate of cheese and crackers.”

The panic in Lance's mind settles. His wallet ceases its frenzied screaming, and the tension in his shoulders dissipates. “Okay. That's fair enough.” He smirks and, after ordering the food, he spends the rest of the night sneaking glances at Keith when he isn't looking.

* * *

By the time the performance concludes, it's somewhere around 11:30 PM.

By 11:45, as the band finishes packing their things, the place is empty, save for the owner and the band members.  **KARKAT VANTAS** has finally finished packing his things, and he's ready as he'll ever be to go home. He also feels as if he's made some progress with the other band members; both Rose and Kanaya helped him get his equipment to his car. Nonetheless, his body aches, his head is throbbing, and his mood has plummeted so low that he swears he felt it penetrate the planet's core. So, when he sees Dave approaching him, he feels nothing but a vehement, overpowering distrust. “God fucking dammit, what could you possibly want?”

Dave halts his approach for a minute, giving just enough time for a sense of relief to rise. Unfortunately, this hope is crushed when he continues moving forward. He holds himself with the same casual pride as always: his hands are buried in his pockets, his shoulders are relaxed, and his gait is true and steady. All of these factors only annoy Karkat more. “I just wanted to say you did a fuckin' great job out there. We didn't really have all that much time to actually practice, so I wouldn't have blamed you if you took the first train to confusion city, but you absolutely nailed it. Fuck, man, you nailed it harder than a blacksmith at a nail-making competition.”

Oddly enough, as Dave continues, the frustration Karkat had been feeling fizzles out, much like an ill-advised attempt to light a campfire underwater.

“Anyhow, I've got your cut. Our next gig is this weekend, I'll send you more details later, okay?” He concludes by handing over an envelope, which, due to his early arrival, Karkat knows is filled with cash. “I'll catch you around, Vantas.” True to his word, Dave turns on his heel and walks out the door, carrying his keytar on his back and his army of sound-mixing equipment in a rolling case behind him.

And, in his wake, Karkat stands, both stunned and confused. He's never before heard words spoken from the blond's mouth with such sincerity, nor was he sure that such frankness could ever come from him. Something about the interaction sticks with him, and he finds himself wondering if there's something more to Dave Strider than meets the eye.


	5. Smash the Mirror

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **[Smash the Mirror](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mexcOJOnxpU)** by The Who  
>  _Tommy_ (1969)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here they come here they come! **it's the pesterlogs!!!**

The art history classroom is a fairly small place. It's on the second floor of a building formerly meant to be a church, and the presence of stained glass windows attests to this fact. At the front of the room, opposite the entryway, is a modestly sized projector screen. The topic of today's lesson is art of the Napoleonic era, and it's something  **DAVE STRIDER** couldn't possibly care less about. In fact, if Dave cared any less about this topic than he already does, he'd simply cease to exist; the sheer force of his disregard would simply delete him from the fabric of this reality. Of course, seeing as he is sitting in his seat, this is not the case. Instead, Dave faces a far worse fate. As luck would have it, today's discussion is peer-driven. The whole class, consisting of eighteen students, has been paired off at random. In order to further fuck Dave over, luck also dictated that his partner would be Karkat Vantas.

Now, the bright side of this situation is that Karkat seems to be slightly off kilter. He doesn't seem quite as quick to the draw as he usually is. His hair is messier than usual, and his speech is uncharacteristically soft. (Even so, it remains quite loud in proportion to the other voices in the room.) “You did the reading, right, Strider?”

Dave shrugs. He has most definitely  _not_ done the assigned twenty-something page reading, purely because he simply does not care. This isn't his major. He just needs this credit to graduate, which means the bare minimum he must meet is a D. He's not about to admit to avoiding the reading, though. The professor is patrolling the room, and saying aloud that he neglected his homework will lower his grade. Instead, he avoids the question by posing another, “What's our topic again?”

“God, did you listen to a single goddamned thing the teacher said, Strider?” Karkat growls. “We're talking about the political implications of the artwork.”

“Well, there sure as fuck were some implications of some sort, so jot that the fuck down,” Dave responds, smirking.

Karkat, however, remains unamused. “Look, you might not give a flying fuck about this, but I do. You better be glad you got me, because I actually  _did_ myreading.” At this point, he pauses. He flips through his notebook, in which he seems to keep meticulously organized notes, and begins blurting out answers. “Napoleon was a fucking prick. That's it. The whole discussion is right there. He basically used art to lift himself to the level of a saint, and that obviously went super fucking well for him, right? Not like he was eventually exiled. Anyhow, he basically showed off how much of a fucking tool he was all the time, so you probably would've been great friends with him.”“

“Maybe. So, what, you just gonna' keep that in mind, or?”

“God, fucking... Write it down, you blithering anal polyp. Jesus fucking Christ, it can't be that hard. Or... Actually, no, I don't trust you to write it down. I would trust my academic career to a fucking goat sooner than I'd trust it to you. I'll do it.” A vehement Karkat snatches up his pen and scribbles out the answers. His writing is in all caps, and it's mostly illegible. It's something Dave prepares himself to comment on, only for Karkat to release a stifled yelp. His grip on the pen releases, and it clatters onto the table. “Fuck.”

“You okay over there?”

Karkat nods. A long, steady sigh escapes him. “It was just a cramp. Don't worry about it.” Despite this, he massages his left hand against his right wrist. “I'd be more worried about what happens if you actually get asked a question. I'm sure you'll fuck it up in some stupendous, irreverent fashion.” Even as he speaks, the fingers of his right hand twitch oddly; the movements are small, but noticeable. “I'm not vouching for you, by the way. I'm more than happy to watch you crash and burn.”

 

Dave counters with a blithe nod. “Sounds fuckin' fair to me, dude. Throw me under that speeding death bus, I don't care.”

“God, you're insufferable,” grumbles Karkat.

“Much thanks, dude.” Despite his friendly jabs—or, rather, what  _he_ perceives to be friendly jabs—there's a fair amount of concern bottled up inside of Dave. Aside from the fact that he doesn't want to lose another drummer, a certain part of him really does care about Karkat.

In fact, Dave cares deeply about all of his band members, since they're the closest he's ever come to any sort of viable family. And, as is often the case, the last thing he wants to see is any sort of harm befalling this misfit found family. Sure, Karkat is a new member of the group, but he's part of it, and, in Dave's book, that's worth something. Now, Dave would never say any of this to the other man's face. No, he'd never breathe so much as a hint of his deep protectiveness to any of his close friends. As far as he's concerned, he's forged these alliances on ironic social aloofness alone, and he very much and very stupidly intends to keep it this way. So, for now, he continues to hide beneath a veneer of false disinterest.

Continuing this ruse, Dave folds his arms across his chest and props his feet up on the desk.

This garners the exact reaction he'd hoped for. Karkat lets forth a low growl, shakes his head, and swiftly flips his chair around, so that his back faces Dave. Silence falls between the two.

* * *

**ROSE LALONDE** is an intriguing individual, to whom we have not dedicated nearly enough essential narrative attention. As such, it is only just that we bestow upon her the insight we have already given to other characters. At roughly the same time that Dave is annoying Karkat, Rose is sitting in the campus' commons building. She's sprawled out on one of the many sofas, and her hands are busy knitting a rather long, green-and-black scarf. She has been working on this project for about a week, and it's nearing its completion. She intends to save to, and she shall invariably present it to her girlfriend, Kanaya, for their second anniversary.

As she works, she listens to the occurrences around her. Many people walk by, blurting out snippets of gossip and knowledge. Nothing of any interest. Nothing of any consequence.

At this exact moment, she's at peace. She's wrapped herself in a blanket of metaphorical serenity, and her knitting is so methodical as to be repetitive. Counting stitches is beneath her; she works by instinct and rote patterns. As such, when another friend of hers takes a seat nearby, she is confident in her abilities to both speak and knit. “Why, hello, John. I haven't seen you around in a few days. I presume that means you're busy studying.”

From his spot in the armchair across from Rose, John shrugs. He brushes some of his wild black hair from his face, and he flashes one of his trademarked, toothy grins. “I guess I am. I've been playing a lot of games lately, too. Actually, I was just here to get some lunch, then, I saw you. So I thought to myself, ‘I should go talk to Rose’, and that's the end of that story.”

“Is it, now?” presses Rose, her brows rising.

“Okay, okay,” John admits. He raises his hands in the air. “I also came to say that I just heard from Jade that she'll be coming down from Prospit University to visit us this weekend. Not sure if you guys have a gig going, but she said she'd be happy to join if you do. I think she misses the band.”

“Yes, well, we did start it in high school. I'm sure it's a routine she's grown fond of. Admittedly, I have developed a weakness for the ritual.” The moment of introspection passes, and Rose offers a wry grin. “I suppose it'll be nice to see her again, but we'll have to demonstrate that she's on rival territory. Perhaps we'll present her with a Skaia College shirt? Something from the campus store will suffice.”

“Oh, shit, Rose. That's a great idea!” There's an excited spark in John's eye. It's a look Rose knows well, and it's often followed by a prank. “She's my cousin, so I know her size. I'll get her something from all of us.”

“Wonderful! I'm sure she'll love it.” Again, Rose breaks her usual stoicism to chuckle. “I wonder if anyone told her about Gamzee... They never really hit it off, so I'm not sure she'll be sad to hear he's gone. I'm intrigued to see what she'll think of Karkat, though...”

“I think Dave told her about the drug bust, so she knows. She's mentioned to me something about you all getting a new drummer, so...” John pauses to glance at the plastic bag in his hand, which Rose assumes is filled with his meatball sub. His smile takes on a sheepish quality as he continues, “Now, I hate to break bad news, but my lunch is getting soggy.”

“Then, go! Consume your sustenance, John!” Rose grins.

John mirrors the expression. He offers a casual wave, then rushes from the building.

And, as easily as she'd begun conversing, Rose falls silent. She settles back into a routine of eavesdropping and knitting.

* * *

\-- turntechGodhead [TG] opened a memo on board PENSIVE EMOJI UPDATE MEMO --  
\-- turntechGodhead [TG] responded to memo at 01:13 --

TG: so change of plans for the next gig everyone  
TG: same venue and all that good gritty shit so don't go flipping your fuckin wigs off and throwing them to the ocean  
TG: but we're going to be playing at 9 instead of 6  
TG: that good with y'all

\-- carcinoGeneticist [CG] responded to memo at 01:17 --

CG: Hey, have you ever heard of messaging people at a decent fucking time? I was perfectly content being in the momentary preview of death we know as sleep, and I *do not* appreciate being woken up for this bullshit, which could have easily waited until a later time.

TG: what you just  
TG: sleep with your laptop open  
TG: waiting to be woken by any sudden bleeps of an alert

CG: I have Pesterchum mobile, you soggy, squalid rag of a human being.

TG: and it doesn't have a mute setting

CG: Motherfucker.

\-- tentacleTherapist [TT] responded to memo at 01:30 --

TT: Well, Dave, at this point, you've sent enough messages to wake any regular human being via vibrate. Everyone else in this chat is perfectly acquainted with your particular brand of antics, but Karkat has yet to have sufficient time to acclimate to them. Perhaps he has a point. We have larger obligations to attend to in college than we did before. Homework is much more labor-intensive, and it would be best for all that we get some sleep.

\-- grimAuxiliatrix [GA] responded to memo at 1:32 --

GA: As Usual I Must Agree With My Lovely Girlfriend

TT: Why, thank you, dear. ♥

TG: get a fuckin room you two

CG: Get some fucking common sense, Strider.

GA: This Is Obviously Going Quite Well

TT: Indeed.

TG: well whatever i said what i needed to so i'mma bounce  
TG: catch you on the flip side losers

\-- turntechGodhead [TG] closed the memo! --


	6. Derezzed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **[Derezzed](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=F4eccPBFEjE)** by Daft Punk  
>  _Tron: Legacy_ [Soundtrack] (2010)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay so just as a failsafe i'll list the usernames here, including shiro. palaDad [PD] is shiro, loverBoy [LB] is lance, mulletLover [ML] is keith, bakingBro [BB] is hunk, and installWizard is pidge. i also tried to color code them, but keith was hard since he'd otherwise overlap with dave.

\-- loverBoy [LB] opened a memo on board DOPE ASS PARTY INVITES HMU --  
\-- installWizard [IW] responded to memo at 09:50 --

IW: haha. first.

\-- loverBoy [LB] responded to memo at 09:51 --

LB: pidge what the fuck  
LB: again

\-- mulletLover [ML] responded to memo at 09:53 --

ML: Okay, first of all, lance, it isn't that hard to get a word in before pidge does her usual “first” thing.

LB: obviously it is because she just did it

ML: Secondly, what did you drag all of us into a chat group for, anyhow?  
ML: What's today's “big, important news”?

LB: i'm glad you asked honey bear

ML: Call me that again and i *will* kill you, lance.

LB: okay fair

\-- bakingBro [BB] responded to memo at 10:01 --

BB: hey, can any of you guys access the school menu for today?  
BB: looks like the website might be down... :(

IW: yeah. looks like the website is down hunk.

LB: i was trying to say something  
LB: jesus christ  
LB: hello

ML: Oh. Yeah. What was it, lance?

BB: sorry.

IW: uwu

LB: don't you uwu me pidge  
LB: as i was saying there's supposed to be this ultra cool party happening tonight at alpha sigma sigma  
LB: super exclusive and only the coolest of the cool kids will even be invited  
LB: well fortunately for us i got some tickets from  
LB: well honestly i don't know his name it was like kronkite or kankri or cronus or something  
LB: the point is that i have invites for everyone  
LB: so who's in

BB: i'll bring cupcakes! :)

LB: with weed in them right

BB: NO!! :o

ML: NO!!!

IW: OH FUCK YEAH!

LB: okay so i guess that's no to the pot cupcakes

IW: fuck. well whatever. i'll come anyhow, since i don't have anything else to do.

LB: sweet so that leaves it all to you boo boo bear

ML: ...  
ML: ...  
ML: ...

BB: the suspense is killing me.

ML: Never *ever* call me “boo boo bear“ again, and i'll come.

LB: good deal  
LB: awesome so we're all set to go

IW: can't wait to party it up.

LB: totally  
LB: meet at the fountain at 5:00 and we'll go from there

ML: Okay.

BB: i can still bring cupcakes right? :)

LB: sure

BB: awesome!

LB: so we're all squared up thots

\-- loverBoy [LB] closed the memo! --

* * *

The frat house of Alpha Sigma Sigma is the largest of the five on campus. Its Victorian facade towers above the rest of the homes on Frat Row, and it does so quite literally; a four-story tower is situated at the home's northwestern corner. The rest of the building is three stories, with the second and third dedicated to housing. The entirety of the first floor is for living and partying. A game room, featuring games such as foosball and pool, occupies the octagonal footprint of the northwestern tower. Immediately to its north is the open concept kitchen, which flows seamlessly into a luxurious living space, replete with a fireplace. (Considering the time of the year, however, the fire is not burning. It is, dear audience, ill-advised to have a fire going at the tail end of an East Coast summer.) Within the confines of this living area are several couches, all of which are stained with various questionable spots.

Even now, only a few minutes into the party's official beginning, a crowd has gathered. For such a small campus, the size of the gathering is admirable; at least sixty or seventy people are already here. Some have taken up residence in the front yard, where there are an array of standard academic activities occurring (including beer pong, sack throwing, Nerf gunning, and drunken antics in an inflatable kiddie pool); others, such as  **DAVE STRIDER** , occupy their time in the game room. At this very minute, he is waist-deep in an intense game of foosball against Rose. “The score is very, very close,” he might lie; the score is decidedly  _not_ close. In fact, Rose is ahead of her brother by seven points. Her next goal will end the game.

“I asked you if you wanted to play pool, David,” she points out.

“And I said ‘no’,” he counters. He opens his mouth to say more, only for two events to happen simultaneously. The first of these is the end of the game. The ball slides smoothly across the table, unnoticed by Dave's keen eye, and into the goal. A quiet clink accompanies the sliding of the plastic score board, and Rose's face breaks into a wide grin. The second of these events is the ringing of Dave's phone, which just so happens to be in his back pocket. Naturally, and with no other reason to justify not doing so, he pulls it out. The text on the screen indicates that he has a new message from Karkat.

As soon as he opens it, the message seems to eat up most of Dave's screen. “Hello, dumbass,” it begins with all the charm he'd expect of Karkat. “I understand that this gig is occurring at this year's first frat party, and I'm more than happy to come, providing you pay me my fair share. I have no reason to doubt you will, seeing as, despite being an ass-sniffing turd-muncher, you're a reliable person. I'm messaging you to point out that I might be late due to some recent events, which I have no desire to tell you about. I will be there in time for the show, but your so-called imbecilic notion of ‘bonding time’ will be woefully shortened. I offer absolutely none of my limited daily amount of sincere apologies about this. Fuck you.”

“Karkat again?” Rose inquires. She places her hands atop the flat portion of her end of the foosball table and quirks her brow. There's the vaguest of upturns at the edges of her lips, and a sense of superior smugness begins to seep from her being.

Dave's response is immediate and defensive, “Look, Lalonde, you're the one who told me to try and get to know him in the first fuckin' place, so don't come after my ass when I actually listen to your advice for once.” With unnecessary roughness, he pockets his phone. “He'll be late. Didn't say why, and I don't care why. I'm doing trying to get along with this fuckin' douchecanoe, anyhow.” These words are so untrue as to be candidates for the prize of the world's greatest lies. Though he would never admit it, Dave _does_ care whether or not Karkat likes him. He is, above all, a being starved for friendly interactions and a fervent seeks rof validation.

And, the ever-perceptive Rose Lalonde can easily see through the ruse. Dave doesn't know this, though. He, unlike you, to whom information is freely given, believes that his secret is perfectly safe. Rose only validates this false sense of comfort, as she happily plays the part of a clueless onlooker. “Well, I'm sure he'll show up soon enough. Until then, I propose that we indulge in some hearty merriment. We'll only be young and stupid once, dead brother, we should celebrate it while we are.”

Dave is floored by this suggestion. While he's well aware of Rose's oft-hidden fun side, it's rarely on display this publicly. He can't help bus question it. “Are you really suggestin' what I think you are?”

“Perhaps,” says Rose, as a coy smile works its way into her face. “Of course, I will not be participating in the same way, but you should, within reason, enjoy the libations.”

“You're damned straight right I will!” With this wager affirmation, Dave bounds off, toward the kitchen. There, he finds exactly what he's looking for.

Booze is plentiful, as one would expect of a college party. And, as one should also expect, it's the bottom of the barrel variety. Canned Keystone is the party's most plentiful drink, though Dave also spots a few hard apple ciders. His love of apple juice compels him to drink the latter of the two choices. He pops off the cap, pockets it, and begins to drink.

* * *

By the time the clock hits 7, Dave Strider is most definitely drunk. He's stumbling around the party, interacting with others with a faux sense of suaveness that he just doesn’t possess. He swaggers about like he owns the world, and **ROSE LALONDE** comes to realization that her encouragement might have come to bite her in the ass.

This is only proven when Dave approaches her, clearly panicked. “Rose. Holy shit. We're gonna' be late to perform,” he slurs. His shades are eskew, and his exposed right eye squints against the harsh strobe lights, which erupt from cheap gobos the dance floor. “Rose, this is fuckin' bad.”

“Dave,” responds Rose, forcing her voice to remain even, “The performance was moved up, remember? We still have roughly two hours.”

There's a momentary pause. It seems the gears in Dave's head are turning and, after a minute, he nods. “Oh. Yeah. Forgot ‘bout that.”

Rose, much like a character in a memetic comedy about office workers, stares blankly ahead. Clearly, she has made a very, very big mistake.

* * *

While he knows he's not really supposed to be at a student party, and that it is unprofessional, **TAKASHI SHIROGANE** _is_ only twenty-five years old. Aside from this fact, most of the people there are drunk enough to never remember his presence. Thus, he arrives at the campus' first party a little bit late, ensuring that most attendees are less than sober. He keeps his outfit casual, and sports a white and black sweatshirt. His hair is slightly more tousled than usual; depending on how keen an eye one has, they might not even recognize him. In fact, only the horizontal scar across the bridge of his nose gives him away and, in this dim lighting, that's hard to see.

Upon arrival, however, something immediately catches his attention. In the corner of the spacious living room, he notices a familiar face. A slender, red-haired man, with pale skin and a neatly styled mustache, is leaned casually against the counter. He's sipping at what  _must_ be a beverage he'd brought. No college fraternity would ever have anything as off-the-wall-wild as Van Honsebrouck kriek. In fact, off the top of his head, Shiro can name only one individual with such specific, unique tastes, and it is, indeed, exactly who he thinks it is.

“Coran?” Shiro inquires, a smirk spread across his face, “Weren't you the one who told me to not risk coming to student parties?”

When the other man speaks, his voice is marked by a thick, distinct, and almost Australian-sounding accent. (Not that Shiro would ever be able to specifically identify what, precisely, the accent is. In fact, the narrator will not open that particular can of vernacular worms.) “Maybe I did. I don't always follow my own advice, Shiro.” When he smiles, his mustache bristles. His meticulously styled brows coyly furrow. “Cheers?”

Shiro, too, has brought his own drink. While he wouldn't consider himself a picky drinker, he draws the line at a beer that literally smells of gasoline. (And perhaps, you, too, might want to avoid it.) He has chosen a simple rosé, which he pops open in response to Coran's comment. “Cheers,” he parrots.

The glasses clink together at the exact moment that another familiar face walks by. The mop of wild black hair is the first giveaway, and the voice is the second. “Professor Shirogane,” the young man smirks. “Or, should I say, Mr. Shiro?”

“Oi,” Coran laughs, “Looks like we've got a nosy one.  _Mister_ Shiro, now, is it?”

“This is Keith,” Shiro explains, sighing, “I tutored him years ago. It's nothing, really.”

“'Course it isn't,” Coran's smirk only grows. “Well, Mr. Shiro, I'll be seeing you around tonight, I believe.” The commentary is punctuated by a friendly pat on the back and a small chuckle.

In the meantime, Shiro has turned his attentions to Keith. “What've you been up to, then, Keith?”

“Not much,” is the response. After taking a sip of the beer in his hand, he grimaces. He promptly sets the can aside, never to touch it again. “Fuck! That's horrible!”

“That's why I have this.” With an air of triumphant pride, Shiro holds aloft his bottle of rosé. “Never expect a frat party to have good drinks. Ever. That's just how it is. They didn't have any good booze when I was in college, and they obviously don't have any now.”

“Solid point,” Keith nods in agreement, looking a lot like he's been told the secrets of his reality within the narrative. Unconsciously, he tugs at the fingerless gloves he usually wears. “I'm not going to get busted for drinking underage, right?”

“Well, if I get a hint of this party going bad, I'll be out of here. So, no, you won't.”

“Awesome. Thanks.” There's a pause, during which little of interest happens. Then, without any warning, Keith once against speaks up. “Have you seen Lance? He's my boyfriend. Tall, dark brown hair, kind of tan...”

“Sorry,” Shiro frowns, “I haven't. Speaking of that, I should probably tell Adam where I am...” his voice trails off, and he immediately whips out his phone.

Keith follows suit.

The two men offer one another brief waves, then, they quietly part ways.

* * *

By the time the performance comes to a close, at roughly midnight, **KARKAT VANTAS** has obviously arrived. He knows his band leader is drunk off his ass, and that he _played_ drunk off his ass. He _knows_ it, yet Dave played as if he's perfectly sober. It's a phenomenon Karkat simply can't explain, nor does he really feel the need to. Regardless of this, and his aching muscles, he's concerned.

There's an unsettled air about Dave, a creeping air of pure discontent. For someone who seems to so desperately crave global adoration, it seems unusual that he is anything but ecstatic about the equally drunk crowd's cheers. Something isn't quite right about it, and, in spite of his very vocal disregard for the man, Karkat's curiosity demands that he get to the bottom of it. So, once he's managed to pack up his drums, he approaches him. “What's up, Strider?”

“Not much.” By this point, Dave has only managed to pack his keytar; his sound mixing equipment is still out. “Why're you askin'?” Dave's voice is less muffled than it had been. He's coming down from his alcohol-fueled high, but the effects still linger.

And, perhaps, it isn't the best time for Karkat to be pressing him for details about his emotional status. Hell, he's never before seen Strider expressing anything other than apathy. Still, he continues. “Aren't you going to brag about how fucking amazing this performance was? The crowd was off their goddamned rocks, Strider. You're really not going to say anything about that?”

“Hm?” Dave seems lost in thought, and this only changes when he eventually responds, “Oh! Nah. Ain't worth pointin' out. It sucked tonight, actually. I sure as fuck wasn't playin' as well as I should've. I dove right into whiskey river, and I was swimming in it when I should've been lost in the musical sauce, you feel?”

“Uh... not really?” Karkat answers, his brows furrowing. “You sounded great out there, by the way. I hate to pump up your already over-inflated ego, because that'll just end more spectacularly than the fucking Hindenburg. You played like you weren't... whatever the hell you said.”

“Yeah, awesome, thanks. Whatever. I'll work on it later.” Dave waves the commentary aside. His mind has wandered, veering wildly off course. And he, too, meanders away.

Karkat, thoroughly stunned by the strange occurrences he's just seen, decides against following. Instead, he finishes packing himself up; then, he departs.


	7. Human After All

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **[Human After All](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PXYeARRyDWk)** by Daft Punk  
>  _Human After All_ (2005)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hot shit this one got long

The day after the events of the day before, which just so happened to include a rather raucous party, begin with a killer hangover for  **DAVE STRIDER**. This shouldn't be any sort of surprise to anyone, least of all Dave, and, yet, it is. By noon, however, it has subsided enough for him to get some sort of legitimate food; the oatmeal he'd made himself isn't near enough to fill his growling stomach. Unfortunately, he finds his head is still throbbing, and he knows going to get food will only make it worse. So, instead, he's resorted to asking someone to get food  _for_ him.

Much to his chagrin, no one seems to be available. John? He's busy working on a group project. Rose? Fuck knows what she and Kanaya are cavorting about doing. Of course, Jade is coming, but she won't be here for a while. So, distressingly, he's left with only one option.

He's already sent out a reluctant text. Translated from his usual texting style, it reads: “Okay so I know it's really short notice and all that, but I've got one killer hangover. I know that today is a special hot dog day at Build Your Own Burger in the commons, so I'll pay you cash to get me a hot dog.” He'd sent this message out about two minutes prior to our collective narrative focus falling upon us.

And, to his surprise, at the end of these two minutes, he receives a reply. “As much as I fucking loathe your very existence, my overly empathetic heart bleeds for your self-inflicted woes. Against my better judgement, I'm going to agree to the delivery of a shit-tier-quality meal. What do you want on your cylinder of discarded meats?”

As he assumes that Karkat wasted no time responding to him, he, too, offers a prompt retort. Again, translating his usual textual quirks, his answer is as such: “Meat, not that fuckin' veggie shit. if they got it, dunk on some of that chili and cheese. If they don't, I'll take just mustard on it. Thanks. I'll pay you back for the meal and some extra for the delivery, and I'm in room 120, Armstrong Hall.”

 

Dave's initial hesitancy seems unfounded when, only ten minutes after (according to the phone's delivery receipts), Karkat arrives. The minute he enters the room, however, several things strike Dave. The most obvious is that he's switched to two crutches, and it seems as if he's actively fighting against gravity. His right leg moves slowly, sometimes hovering in place for a moment before coming down, and he's far less confident in his gait. His breathing is heavier than usual. Even when he finally takes a seat on the makeshift sofa (which is comprised of various junk-filled milk crates, atop which cushions have been draped), his labored breaths continue.

Regardless of these nuances, Karkat's usual bite is still there. He pulls the bag off of his back, opens it up, and produces a brown paper bag from its depths. “Your food, you blithering ass chute,” he growls.

Though he responds as he often would, with an apathetic shrug and a neutral facial expression, Dave takes the bag from Karkat's hand with perhaps excessive care. He watches the other man closely, even as he speaks, trying to understand what he's seeing. “Thanks. I owe you. I think it's...” here, he sets aside the bag. Snatching up his wallet, he begins to rifle through its contents. He plucks the appropriate amount out as he works it out, aloud, “Seven for the hot dog, right? About that... I smell that chili and cheese like a shark runs for blood, dude. And... uh... for your delivery here, I've got... how about ten bucks?”

“Stingy motherfucker, aren't you?” Karkat smirks. He cocks his head a bit to the side, and the light hits his face such that it highlights his features perfectly. Much of its geometry is comprised of soft curves, save for the hard edges of his brows and his oft-pursed lips. In spite of the roundness of his jaw, the point at which it meets his neck is made of strict, rigid lines. And, of all these details, one interests Dave more than the others: despite what they appear to be, Karkat's eyes aren't a pure grey. Rather, they're flecked with spots of shining gold. “Look, you tremendous dumbass, you don't need to pay me to do a good deed. I might as well gain some favor in the eyes of whatever sadistic force rules over my existence. I'll just take the money from the hot dog, okay?”

Dave nods. He hands over the cash, and begins eating his lunch.

Yet, even as he does his best not to, he can't help but wonder...

His brain is in overdrive and, after several strained minutes, he speaks up. The words spill from his mouth with all the finesse of a pre-patch release date game by a not-to-be-named-to-avoid-any-implications game company. “Y-you look... uh... Huh. You look... nice...” The minute he's managed to finish stuttering this, he regrets it. He wants nothing more than to be able to reel it back into his mouth, and he knows he can't.

Karkat, however, manages to seem even more bewildered than Dave is. His eyes widen, his brows furrow, and his lips turn downward. “What the fuck? I mean, thanks. I guess that's flattering, but what the fuck?”

“I don't know,” Dave huffs, his cheeks burning bright pink. He feels the heat, and he wallows in the resultant shame. He reminds himself of an old adage his older brother, who just so happened to (quite poorly) raise him, had once said: Striders don't make mistakes. He considers it. Perhaps, this was just something that was supposed to happen? “I was just saying that you look good, okay? Don't let it blow you up or whatever. It's just a random comment.”

Karkat, quite justly, appears to doubt this affirmation. (And, unbeknownst to Dave, he  _very much_ doubts the declaration.) Nevertheless, he acts otherwise unaffected. He shrugs, folds his arms stubbornly across his chest, and breathes a huff of some emotion, which Dave cannot identify, but the narrator can most definitely say is nothing short of confusion. “What, you have some sort of sick crush on me? Are you knocking your rocks for some of my ass, Strider?”

Dave's blush only grows redder with each word, yet he feels as if the blood is draining from his face at the same time. “No!” he snaps. “God, dude, just take a compliment. Don't have to be gay.”

“You're right,” shrugs Karkat, rolling his eyes, “I was making a joke, you imbecilic pile of feces.”

A dense, palpably awkward silence falls between the two. Only Dave seems to be bold—or, perhaps, stupid—enough to break it. He clears his throat, takes a sip of a nearby, open soda, and speaks up. “You want to stick around? I don't know, it looks, uh...” As if by the fate of some sort of plot-driven coincidence, the overcast weather of the day finally gives way. Rain begins falling, and it comes down heavy. “Okay.”

“Fuck.” Frustration drives Karkat's fingers upwards, where they tangle themselves amidst his thick hair. “I've stranded myself in a fate worse than eternal damnation as a fucking dung beetle.”

* * *

Deferring from the flaming dumpster fire that is Karkat and Dave's relationship, it just so happens that, at the same time, **KEITH KOGANE** is having a far better experience with his boyfriend. The pair have, after ridding themselves of their own hangovers from last night's party, decided to sojourn to Hunk and Pidge's shared dorm room. The group has engaged in a game of good, old-fashioned Cards Against Humanity, and they've also invited a guest; Shiro has joined them, citing a lack of pressing grading to attend to.

When our narrative focus falls upon this little collective, they're just beginning their game. Pidge is Card Tsar, and the card for this round instructs the players to inform her of how they die. Before she begins the round, however, she addresses the elephant in the room. Turning to Shiro, she levels at him a very valid question, “So, what, do I still call you Professor Shirogane?”

To this, Shiro laughs. It's a hearty, booming sound. “Oh, hell, no! We're all pals here. I mean, I'm mostly Keith's pal, but, since you're his friends, I default to liking you all, too. As long as we're not in the classroom, just call me Shiro.” A wide, inviting smile punctuates this, and it continues, even as he makes a very convincing case, “And, remember, I was never here. I really shouldn't be getting so buddy-buddy with students, but I  _am_ only four years older than most of the oldest people on this campus. It's kind of hard not to be friends with some of you guys.”

“Holy shit,” Lance eloquently says, “You're only twenty-five!?”

“I told you, Lance,” Keith sighs, “Shiro is the youngest professor this college has ever seen. He's also an alumnus. Now, can we all shut up and play this game?”

“Yeah,” Pidge agrees, with almost excessive vigor, and jabs a finger at the black card. “Tell me how you losers die, okay?”

“Fair enough,” shrugs Hunk.

The group, as a result, pause. The cards are played, and Keith can't help but study the reactions as Pidge reads each card.

“Okay, so, this round is... ‘Blank. That's how I die.’ Our inaugural bullshit is...” Pidge clears her throat, then pauses for emphasis. After this, she flourishes out the first card, announcing, aloud, its contents. “A Super Soaker full of cat pee. ‘That's how I die.’” Pidge smirks, though she doesn't seem entirely invested in this particular card.

Nevertheless, it seems as if Hunk is barely containing a giggle.

The next card is produced. Again, the results are read to the crowd. “Next, we have... Republicans. ‘That's how I die.’ Too realistic. Blocked.”

“I didn't have a better card!” Lance protests.

Keith covers his face. “Great, moron, now we all know who put that card down! The whole point of this is that we  _don't know_ who put the card down until the end of the round, Lance. Was this somehow not understood?”

“Oh, I understand it,” counters Lance, flashing one of those stupidly charming grins, ”I was just making my case.”

Shiro is smirking.

Pidge, meanwhile, speaks up, so that her voice carries above Keith and Lance's jabs. “Oompa-Loompas. ‘That's how I die.’ Okay, fine. That's fucking valid, actually.” At this point, she shudders. “Those little orange men were creepy.”

By now, having settled things with Lance, Keith notices that Shiro's smirk has grown wider.

The final card is read. “And, last, but not least, we have...” The winner is obvious. The rest of the statement is lost in a fit of giggles, and Pidge tosses the card into the center of the circle formed by the young adults. ‘Eight ounces of sweet Mexican black-tar heroin’ triumphantly faces upwards.

“Boom, baby,” Hunk declares, snatching up his card. He holds it up, level with his face, and grins. His free hand flashes a thumbs-up. “If this works like Apples-to-Apples, it means I'm dead!”

“Cool! I have my own room, now!” snickers Pidge.

Hunk simply rolls his eyes. Then, after everyone has drawn a card, to replace their last, he (being the owner of the deck, and also the next person counter-clockwise from Pidge) takes over as Card Tsar. After plucking a black card from the deck, he tosses it out, so that it lands, again, in the center. “‘What are my parents hiding from me?’” he reads, before adding on his own commentary, “Well, last time I checked, it was the recipe to my grandma's baked pineapples.” Apparently amused by this joke, he lets forth a snort of laughter. Then, once all the cards are in, he repeats the same process as before. “Okay. So... My parents are apparently hiding...” he tosses each card out as he reads it. Unlike Pidge, Hunk is able to keep a straight face through all of the cards. This both amazes and frightens Keith. “‘GoGurt’, ‘Fiery poops’, ‘Stephen Hawking talking dirty’,  _and_ ‘Panda sex’ from me. So, apparently, they're hiding  _a lot_ from me, but I'm gonna have to say that...” here, Hunk stops. He feigns a moment of deep thought, only to snicker as he picks up the winning card. “Honestly, they should probably hide the GoGurt from me.”

“I've still got it,” Shiro says, scooping up his card.

Lance, meanwhile, protests. “It's not supposed to be the most realistic card, Hunk! It's the fucking funniest card!”

“Yeah? And I thought that was the funniest. Don't worry, Lance, you'll win one some day.”

Lance groans, but he still accepts his position as the new Card Tsar. “Okay, our next card is...” Unlike Hunk, he takes his turn a bit slower. He picks the card up and holds it close to him, so that he can read it first, before cracking a wide smile. “Damn, this one is good! ‘What gives me uncontrollable gas?’ Play your shit now.”

There's another pause, and another moment of waiting, after which Lance reads out the cards. He follows Hunk's approach, which means that Keith doesn't have much time to read everyone's reactions. “Well, our uncontrollable gas is apparently caused by: ‘Grave robbing’, ‘Teenage pregnancy’, ‘German dungeon porn’, and, the winner, ‘Daniel Radcliffe's delicious asshole’!”

Despite his former jabs at Lance for complaining, Keith can't help but speak up as Hunk grabs another card. “You're supposed to give your card to your boyfriend, Lance!”

“Oh? Which one was yours?” There's genuine confusion on Lance's face, making it obvious he'd expected the winner to be Keith.

Of course, this isn't the case, and Keith points this out by naming his play. “Grave robbing!”

“Okay, well, next time there's an absolute nonsense card, I'll pick it!” counters Lance.

Keith sighs. He shakes his head, then assumes his role as the Card Tsar. “Next, we have... ‘What does grandma find disturbing, yet oddly charming?’ Don't disappoint me, nerds.” Keith smirks, folds his arms across his chest, and waits. When the cards come in, he, too, takes up Hunk's rapid-fire approach. Unlike Pidge, he isn't playing this for the suspense; he just wants a mindless, stupid distraction from his homework. “Okay, so, our hypothetical grandma thinks that... Holy fuck. Okay. I don't care what the other cards were. ‘Tentacle porn’ wins. Hands down.”

“Why, thank you, my dude,” Lance hums, slipping in to grab his first win.

Pidge, meanwhile, groans. “Aw, come on! My grandma is a freak for centaurs!”

“Now, now, we'll settle this in a reasonable, adult way.” Shiro interrupts the commotion. A grin is spread across his face, and he plucks the next black card from the deck with a distinctive gusto. “‘What gets better with age?’ You will not get extra credit for writing in that it's me, by the way.” As Keith expected, Shiro snickers at his own joke. He also can't help but smirk as he picks up the cards, once they're all played, and begins to read them out. He, unlike the rest of the group, also takes a moment to read the cards prior to setting them out, and he appears to put them down in a specific order. “Age makes... ‘Leprosy’, ‘World peace’, and ‘Getting naked and watching Nickelodeon’ better. It also makes the winner better, which is... ‘Dying’!”

This elicits a collective, unified laugh from the entire group. Everyone happily savors their horribly dark sense of humor for a good few minutes before moving on.


	8. Flare

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **[Flare](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ktuDYYtbs2s)** by Clark "Plazmataz" Powell  
>  _Homestuck: Volume 8_ (2011)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay, so, for various reasons including accessibility and also pure annoyance with the quirks, i've tried to avoid using any of the major quirks until now, but i've finally hit a dead end, so here's some fucking crazy shit. if you don't want to deal with it for any reason, just skip the karkat and sollux exchange, which really isn't that long, anyhow. not much voltron crew action in this chapter. sorry about that... and by "not much" i mean there's none.

\-- gardenGnostic [GG] opened a memo on board GUESS WHO IT IS --  
\-- gardenGnostic [GG] responded to memo at 09:21 --

GG: hey there everyone! sorry i'm so late! :o  
GG: i got a little sidetracked doing some... other things. you'll just have to see what that was for yourself!  
GG: but i'm ready now! and i'm waiting for you guys in marmora commons! :)

\-- turntechGodhead [TG] responded to memo at 09:24 --

TG: oh shit my dude i'll be there faster than motherfuckin sonic  
TG: strider out

\-- turntechGodhead [TG] has left the memo! --  
\-- grimAuxiliatrix [GA] responded to memo at 09:26 --

GA: Well That Was Certainly Quick  
GA: Nonetheless I Too Am Eager To Reunite The Band So To Speak  
GA: Sadly You Missed Our Gig On Friday

\-- turntechGodhead [TG] rejoined the memo! --

GG: dave, if you tell anyone what the surprise is i will personally plant the smelliest plant i can find right outside of your dorm room window.  
GG: just a little fyi. ♥

TG: but the world's gotta know dawg  
TG: y'all better get down here before it's gone

GG: hm... getting a little too close to the reveal.

\-- GG banned TG from responding to the memo! --  
\-- ectoBiologist [EB] responded to memo at 09:35 --

EB: jade!!!

\-- tentacleTherapist [TT] responded to memo at 09:35 --

TT: I heartily echo John's sentiment! It feels like forever since we last saw one another. I apologize for my delayed response. *Somebody* is a little sleepy, and she refused to let go of me for two minutes so that I could reply.  
TT: Of course, in the spirit of good faith and to avoid the collapse of this group's jovial mood, I shall refrain from naming names. I shall simply say that her name begins with “Kan” and ends in “-aya”.

EB: rose and kanaya sitting in a tree, k-i-s-s-i-n-g.

GA: Guilty As Charged  
GA: What Can I Say  
GA: Anyhow I Shall Now Log Off And Join Rose On Her Journey To The Marmora Commons Building  
GA: And For Future Reference We Just Call It The Commons

GG: oh! :o  
GG: got it! i'll remember that next time.

\-- grimAuxiliatrix [GA] has left the memo! --  
\-- tentacleTherapist [TT] has left the memo! --  
\-- carcinoGeneticst [CG] responded to memo at 09:55 --

CG: Hey. Hi. Hello. All those fucking pointless, banal formalities we, as English-speaking humans of America customarily greet one another with.  
CG: Now, not to be rude, but who the actual fuck are you? Judging from everyone else's reactions, I'm supposed to be absolutely defecating myself in glee about your apparent arrival. Alas, I am not. Instead, my brain is currently melting itself alive in an attempt to identify you. I can't seem to recall actually hearing about you, to be honest, so I have no idea what's happening.  
CG: If anyone in this godforsaken group of nook-sniffing assholes is even still here and willing to communicate with me, I'd greatly appreciate it.

CG: ...  
CG: Okay, I see how it is.

GG: oh no! :(  
GG: i'm sorry, i didn't realize there was still someone in here! i actually don't know who you are, either, CG, but, since everyone has already seen the surprise, i'll let dave in here to iron all this out.

\-- GG unbanned TG from responding to the memo --

TG: much appreciated dude  
TG: oh by the way the surprise is japanese food and goodies  
TG: y'know  
TG: from japan

CG: As the word ‘Japanese’ so blatantly implies, you dung-headed pile of human-shaped sludge.

GG: ooh! harsh!

TG: ignoring that colorful insult  
TG: karkat this is jade  
TG: jade this is karkat  
TG: he's the new drummer we told you about  
TG: also where the fuck is he

CG: I'm currently doing absolutely-not-your-fucking-business, Strider. I'll be there eventually, so don't get your asshole all clenched about nothing. Everyone enjoy their frivolous frolicking, because I'll be a while.

TG: oh shit dude you okay

CG: None of your business.

TG: m'kay i'll respect that then

GG: okay! i will, too! :)  
GG: can't wait to see you, karkat! dave's said a lot of about you!

CG: Oh, that's very, very comforting.

GG: don't worry, haha! most of it is good!  
GG: i've saved you some goodies too. mom and dad sent them to me. they're on a trip back home, to japan, obviously. ;)  
GG: see you soon!

\-- gardenGnostic [GG] closed the memo. --

* * *

Jade Harley is, in all respects, gorgeous. Her long, black hair is always shining and straight, and her lightly tanned face is always immaculate. Freckles are brushed across the top portion of her cheeks, and her smile is as contagious as the Black Plague. (This reasoning works better if the Black Plague's symptoms were exclusively related to having fun. Alas, they are not, and it may not, in retrospect, be a great idea to compare someone's smile to a deadly medieval disease. The author would like to partially retract the statement, now, but maintains the Jade's smile is radiant and contagious.) Round, black frame spectacles are perched on the bridge of her nose.

And, upon the arrival of a certain  **ROSE LALONDE** , Jade offers an eager greeting. “Rose!” she exclaims, bounding towards her old friend. She wraps her arms around her, easily lifts her into the air, and laughs. “It feels like it's been forever!”

At this point, Kanaya approaches. As she often does during school days (but not always), she wears an plain, silky jade green hijab, which matches her lipstick. “Jade! How has college life been treating you?” she asks, snickering as Rose is finally placed back on firm ground. Though Rose is unable to read Kanaya's thoughts, it should be known that Kanaya is confident she will not be swept up in a vigorous hugging session. Aside from the risk of her head covering coming undone, it is known within the group that Rose is the only person with near-irrevocable permission to touch Kanaya.

Returning to Rose's perspective, however, it is quickly apparent that she is absolutely overflowing with excitement. For a person without much interaction with her, it might seem uncharacteristic. The near-omnipresent facade of formality and poise has fallen away, revealing the fun-loving, giddy person beneath. Such an occurrence really only happens under two conditions: the first is if she is drunk, which she has not been for quite some time; the second situation is when she is finally unable to contain herself. And, seeing her close friend for the first time in months is most definitely grounds to unleash her otherwise deeply buried inhibitions.

Nearby, Dave is similarly engaged. Though he is a bit better at maintaining his mask of indifference, Rose can easily see through it. She doesn't need to see behind the shades to know there's a rare spark in his eye, the sort that usually only comes during the height of a performance. Her experience with him also gives her ample examples of his usual expression to realize the edges of his mouth, though, to an outsider, set in a straight line, are actually turned slightly upwards.

Everyone is in a state of euphoric bliss, and Jade, as she often does, only amplifies it. “By the way, Dave's already begun to dig into the apple flavored Kit-Kat bars, but I've brought stuff from Japan! My parents sent me a care package earlier this week. They're off, in Japan, right now. Visiting Grandma and all that, y'know?” A wide grin punctuates the statement.

Nearby, John, who had also arrived prior to Rose and Kanaya, speaks up. “Any of these have peanuts in them?”

“I put a little sticker on anything that might have peanuts!” Jade says. Then, she turns her attentions back to Rose and Kanaya. “You guys can sit down, by the way.”

“Don't mind if I do,” Rose and Kanaya chorus, in unison, before settling onto the sofa.

* * *

\-- carcinoGeneticist [CG] began pestering twinArmageddons [TA] at 10:02! --

CG: What are you doing?

TA: hm. you want the real an2wer two that que2tiion?  
TA: becau2e ii can very ea2iily tell that two you riight now.  
TA: do you really want two know?

CG: If you're doing *anything* involving Aradia, I don't want to know.  
CG: She's a wonderful young woman, very attractive, and apparently quite smart. For all these reasons, I'm at an absolute fucking loss when it comes to explaining why and how you ever hooked up with her. She is far above your metaphorical range, yet it seems the two of you are great together. Congrats on that front, Captor, you're banging her. I can guess that much.

TA: actually?  
TA: we're ju2t playiing 2ome 2ma2h. lol.

CG: Okay, so you won't mind your best friend asking for some help?

TA: depend2 on what iit ii2

CG: I tripped on another of your dumbass little computer-building projects, you thick-skulled moron! Again! I've told you multiple times to keep them off of the floor, and this is what happens when you don't. You get to come haul my ass off the floor.

TA: oh 2hiit.

CG: “Oh shit” is right, Captor.

TA: okay. ii'll be riight there.

\-- twinArmageddons [TA] ceased pestering carcinoGeneticist [CG] at 10:13! --

* * *

Though the groups in the commons room has been talking for almost two hours, their enthusiasm has yet to wane. They're still laughing and carrying on at 11:30, which also happens to be the time at which **DAVE STRIDER** notices a text from Karkat. After briefly excusing himself, he opens his phone to read it.

“I'm heading over to the commons now. There was a slight delay.”

“Slight delay?” Dave wants to respond. Two hours isn't _slight_. Two hours is fucking abhorrent. If one thing bothers Dave more than anything, it's tardiness. Many, including Rose, have mentioned that this is seems out of line with his otherwise laid-back attitude, but there's something inexplicable—almost canonical—that connects Dave to time, and it drives him to want nothing less than punctuality. It always helps to be early, but it never does anyone good to be late. Hell, to prove that point, most of the Japanese candy is gone. All that remains is a bag of milky mochi balls, which everyone is too confused about to so much as open.

He doesn't want to kill the atmosphere, though, so he keeps his mouth shut and his fingers off the phone screen. Instead, he returns to the group.

A few minutes later, Karkat arrives. He's noticeably more run-down than usual. His hair is, amazingly, messier than usual. Fresh-looking gauze is wrapped around his right forearm, and, as he had before, he uses two crutches. His left leg seems, frankly, useless; unlike before, it simply drags behind him, only lifting sporadically and at seemingly unhelpful intervals. He's most definitely still Karkat, though, and his face remains set in a prominent scowl. Once he's sufficiently close, Dave introduces him.

“Jade, this is Karkat, our new drummer. And, Karkat, this is Jade, our original bassist,” he explains.

The two shake hands.

Karkat's frown grows. “Original? What, did you finally annoy her into leaving?”

Jade responds with a laugh. “No, I went to a different college. Kanaya stepped in as the new bassist just after graduation. Nothing fishy is happening here.”

“Okay.” There's an edge of finely honed skepticism in Karkat's voice. And, after Jade has returned to her seat and the gang has resumed their bantering, he makes his concern known. He inches towards Dave, who he's sitting next to (by pure default, as there were no other available seats), and whispers to him, his voice oddly hoarse, “You have a thing for her, don't you?”

Dave sputters, and he does so far louder than he meant to. “No! Fuck no!” he lies, springing to his feet. “Dude, what the fuck?”

“What's happening?” Rose asks, now intrigued.

Dave shakes his head. Now keenly aware of the attention he's drawn to himself, he feels heat rising to his cheeks. “Nothing,” he lies again. “We're all cool. Everything is fuckin' peachy. Rose, move over, I'm sitting next to you.” Even as he says this, and his sister obliges, he sees the smirk on Karkat's face. It burns into his eyes and rips into his very being.

There's something about the feeling of being read like an open book that Dave has never liked. He's never enjoyed being vulnerable. Growing up, vulnerability was a literal invitation for an attack. No, he must remain inscrutable. He is a rock of enigma, a stone cold facade around a center that even he hasn't fully deciphered.

For the rest of the meeting with Jade, he remains outwardly charismatic and cool. Inside, however, he finds that he feels violated. Karkat shouldn't have been able to see what he saw. He shouldn't know what he knows. (Of course, Dave isn't nearly as stoic as he likes to believe. Not that he would ever recognize or acknowledge this fact.) There's a burning discomfort, which stews in the pit of Dave's stomach, and it makes him question what he is. He questions _who_ he is. If he can't wrap himself in a veil of unknowns, and hide his innermost thoughts from everyone, what is he? He's a walking target, and he's long since vowed to never be that again.


	9. Waterloo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **[Waterloo](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Sj_9CiNkkn4)** by Abba  
>  _Waterloo_ (1974)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> look, what the fuck else do you expect me to name a title where i blab about napoleonic art and wave my art history degree like an obscene appendage?

Monday's art history course begins and ends with about as much enthusiasm as a funeral. In fact, a funeral might even be more lively than the class on this particular day, seeing as much of the clas consisted of the teacher berating what was supposedly “just over half the class” for failing to meet extraordinarily high expectations. According to the rant, most of the students failed the test. The highest score was a perfect 100, the median was seventy-five, and the lowest score was forty-two. And it just so happens that that forty-two belongs to an individual with whom we have become well acquainted; it belongs to **DAVE STRIDER**.

Needless to say, Dave is quite disappointed in this grade. Not that he really _should_ be disappointed. If anything, he should have expected this. He didn't study for so much as a minute, and he never once took thorough notes in the course. In fact, during much of the first two weeks, he simply doodled in his notebook. He truly earned his score, but he's not exactly happy about it. While he doesn't exactly have any investment in the course, he _does_ need to pass it to get his degree, so his first test being a total flop is cause for concern.

This brings the narrative to our second point of intrigue: the lucky and only perfect scorer for the test was, much to Dave's chagrin, Karkat Vantas, who was also absent on this particular day. The professor had asked for a volunteer to provide a photocopy of the test to him, so that it can be added to his review materials, but there were no takers. Perhaps, no one wanted to take time out of their day to deliver make-up work. Or, and as is most likely the case, Dave is the only person in the entire class with any sort of meaningful connection to Karkat. As such, he volunteers to take the test over.

With a bit of time, this leads to an inevitable meeting.

Dave stands before the door to Karkat's dorm room, which is marked by two signs, each bearing the name of an occupant. Karkat and Sollux. Similarly, beneath these signs, there's a white board. A line divides it in half, and each side says a name; beneath these names are magnets. Under Sollux, the magnet says “Currently out”, but Karkat's says “Currently in”. Dave figured as such; Karkat doesn't seem like the type to just skip class.

He knocks, and the door is quickly opened. As Dave expected, Karkat is on the other side. The first thing Dave notices is that he’s awkwardly propped up in what seems to be an uncomfortable hospital wheelchair. Secondly, he looks like absolute shit. The bags beneath his eyes seem too dark to be real. He holds himself with less confidence than usual, and, when he speaks, his voice is surprisingly quiet. (Of course, for Karkat, “quiet” definitively means “regular volume”.) “What the fuck do you want?”

“You missed art history,” Dave says, trying his best to hide his discomfort. “I was told to... uh... The professor wanted me to bring you your test. You got the only perfect score in the class. So... uh...”

“We're having a really fucking eloquent moment here, aren't we?” Karkat grumbles. “Look, just say it.”

“I mean, considering the circumstances, I ain't really all that surprised, but... Uh... Fuck.” Dave pauses. He refuses to meet Karkat's gaze. “Are you okay?”

A snort of bitter laughter serves to introduce Karkat's reply. He rolls his eyes, then narrows the most harrowing glare at Dave that he, and, perhaps, mankind, has ever seen. “Does it  _look_ like I'm okay?”

“Honestly? I 'dunno, dude.”

“Well, at least you're honest... So, why the fuck are you here, bothering me, on a day when I'm obviously not in class?”

At this juncture, Dave realizes he forgot his self-imposed mission. He opens his messenger bag and, from its depths, he pulls a now thoroughly crumpled test. The continuing glare on Karkat's face prompts him to press it against the wall and attempt to flatten it, though it does little more than make the paper slightly less bumpy. “Fuck. Yeah. Your test. I came to give you your test.”

This prompts a long, slow nod from Karkat. He reaches out, snatches the paper from Dave's hand, and prepares to close the door.

Before the wooden portal can click shut, however, Dave rudely jams his foot in front of it. He leans his weight against it, and it doesn't take much effort for him to prevent Karkat from properly closing it.

“What the  _actual fuck_ do you think you're doing, Strider!?” bellow Karkat.

Dave shrugs. “Look, you're obviously pretty good at this subject, and I'm obviously a floundering dumbass, here. So, maybe you could tutor me? I'll pay you for your time and all that.” There's a suddenl increase in the force with which Karkat pulls the door. Dave digs his heels into the rough dorm hall carpeting. “Please, I'm fuckin' begging, dude. Don't make me get on my knees and grovel like a slandered peasant about to be drawn and quartered. I ain't got time for that shit. Please.” He shoves himself further into the gap between the closing door and the threshold to Karkat's room. In doing this, he knocks off his shades.

And, as the eyewear clatters to the ground, there comes a deathly silence.

Grey eyes narrow and meet red. Then, to Dave's surprise, Karkat stops trying to close the door. A long sigh escapes him. “Fine. Whatever. But you'll pay me ten dollars for every hour of my already shortened lifespan I waste with your nattering ass, do you understand? I will be paid nothing less, and perhaps, even, a bit more. This will be a strictly academic venture, and I am _not_ in any way going to get buddy-buddy with you. You will arrive promptly to my dorm, at 9:00, every Monday, Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday night until the next test, and there _will_ be a significant improvement in your grade, or I will cease tutoring you.”

“Hot shit,” Dave grumbles. “Those're some tough terms, pal. Fridays? I got drinkin' to do then. Can't it wait until—?”

Karkat interjects. “If you fail to show up to any of my demanded meetings without a valid excuse, I  _will_ cease tutoring.”

“Oh...”

“Is that understood?”

“I mean—”

 _“Is that fucking understood, Strider?”_ Karkat demands, his voice booming. His words seem to echo up and down the hall, encompassing Dave like a blanket of bullshit. “You want to improve? Then fucking do it. Don't keep twiddling your stupid little thumbs, hoping some cosmic force will highlight the right essays to write on the next test. Tutoring starts now.”

“But I—”

With a surprising amount of force, Karkat grabs the lower hem of Dave's jacket. He pulls him into the room, and the door slams shut.

* * *

Invoking the powers of this particular medium of written fanfiction, let's backtrack a bit. Several hours before Dave and Karkat's interaction, it just so happens that a certain **ROSE LALONDE** is having yet another art class. This particular course is focused on the basics of drawing, and it appears that many of the students—like Rose—are sorely wanting for some of these introductory concepts. There is, however, one student who stands out.

From her time in the course, and though it is only the third week of class, Rose knows that this excellent artist is a man by the name of Hunk. Right now, having finished drawing the assignment (which was the outer, front facade of the art building), he is doodling in the margins of his page. His graded drawing, however, is technically precise in ways Rose could never dream of achieving. The lines are crisp and confident, and the shading makes the entire illustration jump from the page.

Naturally, wanting to both improve her grade and make some friends at this college, Rose approaches him. She scoots her chair over and, once she's close enough, she speaks up. “You're Hunk, right?”

“Sure hope so,” Hunk snickers. He looks up, and the edges of his lips turn upward. “You're the violinist for Pensive Emoji, right? Keith is in love with you guys. I mean... Okay, that sounded a little creepy. Keith likes the band. He's dating Lance, though, and he's also gay, so I wouldn't worry about that.”

“I am dating the band's bassist, so...” Rose responds.

There's a brief second of realization, after which Hunk replies, “Oh. Okay. You finish the assignment, too?”

“I did, but it's not nearly as well rendered as yours.”

“I mean...” Hunk says, pausing to look at Rose's work, “It's not bad. You just need some more shading. Do you mind if I try?”

“Go ahead.”

The sketchbook is lifted from Rose's lap, and Hunk immediately begins working. His hands move with precision, speed, and grace. Somehow, Rose senses that drawing isn't his only talent. It is, however, the gift on display at this exact moment of this literary work, so Rose focuses on it. By the end of his few minutes with the sketchpad, a formerly lifeless drawing has gained vibrancy and depth. And, in line with the helpful nature he seems to possess, Hunk also offers an explanation, “Like I said, your art is good. It just needs some polishing. Hatching is probably the fastest way to shade with a pencil, but, if you've got more time, smooth shading also works. For buildings, though? I'd go with hatching.”

Rose nods. She's vaguely familiar with art terminology, as her brother also does art. However, Dave is far less adept at actually explaining artistic techniques and concepts, so she asks for clarification, “Shading with lines, correct?”

“Yeah!” There's a great deal of enthusiasm in Hunk's voice, and a wide grin has plastered itself onto his face. In a way, he reminds Rose of Jade. “That's hatching! If you ever need help, just let me know. I mean, you could also ask the professor, but she seems to always disappear halfway through the class and never come back, except to say we can leave. It's weird, right? I'm not the only one who thinks it's weird.”

Rose can't help but chuckle at Hunk's ongoing commentary. “No, I concur with your statement. It is very weird.”

“Great, so we're in agreement. Damn, Keith is gonna' be so pissed when he figures out Pensive Emoji goes to this college, and he didn't even know.”

“How could he  _not_ know? We're all over campus most of the time,” Rose says.

Hunk shrugs. “Keith doesn't leave his dorm much. He's more of a loner, really.”

“Understandable,” Rose nods. She prepares to say more, only to silence herself upon catching a glimpse of the professor. She's already seen other students get chastised for not fully investing themselves in the art, and she doesn't want to be added to that list. At least, not today.

* * *

Returning to a later time, it just so happens that the study session has already begun. Karkat Vantas is hunched over his notebook, intensely studying its contents, while a nervous **DAVE STRIDER** sits on the opposite side of the room from him.

“So, you really didn't take any notes on the first two weeks of class?” Karkat growls. His back faces Dave, so it isn't obvious to our viewpoint individual that his brows are furrowing, but his brows are furrowing more than a panicked slug. “So, we'll start with what should be review.”

“God, you sound like my mom,” Dave whines.

Karkat seems to ignore the commentary. He pulls out a pen, writes something on a blank page of lined looseleaf paper, and passes it to Dave.

At first glance, it's obvious that this is a list. However, despite close scrutiny, Dave can't make out what it says. Nonetheless, he acts as if he does. “So, we're reviewing all the Napoleonic shit?”

“When was Napoleon in power?” Karkat cuts straight to the point. There are no frills, and there certainly isn't much time for Dave to react before Karkat cuts him off. “1804 to 1814. He also had a brief bullshit thing during 1815, during the Hundred Days, but we're not fucking with that sack of slimy invertebrates right now.” At this point, he pulls himself up to his dresser, on top of which he's stacked several books. One of these is the art history textbook.

Naturally, and as he isn't truly an entirely apathetic person, as he so desperately wants people to believe, Dave speaks up. “Do you need help?”

“No,” Karkat grunts. He leverages himself against the dresser, using one hand to push against the wheelchair behind him, and heaves himself to his feet. From here, he snatches up the book, then plops back down. He turns, tosses it to Dave, and lets forth the night's thousandth disgruntled growl. “Do you even have one of these?”

Dave, after catching the book, studies it briefly. Then, he admits his answer, “I couldn't afford it.”

The scowl on Karkat's face softens. His muscles relax, and his jaw falls slack. “You... What?”

“The book was two-hundred dollars, Karkat.  _I couldn't afford it_. My money bags ain't that big, so I didn't get it. The cash ain't flowing down the Strider River right now, is what I'm saying.” At this point, he buries his hands in his pockets. He turns his face away from Karkat; something about the look of shock on his face unsettles him. There's a kindness to the sudden change in attitude that Dave has rarely experienced, and he's never witnessed it happening before. His brain flounders in its attempt to parse the situation.

Karkat, however, hasn't missed a beat. He continues, “Take my book, you dumbass.”

“What?” Dave is incredulous. “What's the catch?”

“There's no fucking ‘catch’, you dense piece of soggy newsprint. I'm giving you a free textbook. Fucking take it, read it, and shut up.”

“But... Don't you need the textbook?”

“I do, but my family is rich enough to buy another. It's fine. Just. Take. The. Goddamned. Book. Dammit.” Karkat tangles his fingers in his hair and crosses his right leg over his left. “Look, you socially inept little twit, it's fine! Just take the book! It cannot be that hard to understand.”

“I...” Confusion washes over Dave like a wave hits an unsuspecting toddler, who stands too close to the shore, and he reacts much like the toddler of this hypothetical situation. “I don't get it. There's gotta' be somethin' that I have to do to make this even, right?” as it often does, Dave's southern accent grows stronger as his nerves become increasingly frazzled. “You're tellin' me I don't have to do a single goddamn thing to take this fuckin' expensive textbook?”

Karkat nods. “Yes. That is ex-fucking-actly what I'm saying. Just take it.”

Dave, unwilling to argue the point any further, but still confused, nods. He slips the book into his backpack before risking a glance back at Karkat. By now, his face has returned to its usual scowl. He figures it's safe to speak up. “Can I leave now?”

“Yeah, whatever.” Karkat shrugs. He leans back in his chair, folds his arms across his chest, and closes his eyes. “Goodbye, Strider. Don't let the door hit your stupid ass on the way out.”

Surprisingly, Dave has no snappy comeback. He has no witty quip. Rather, he silently slinks from the room, his shoulders slouching, and rushes back to his dorm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh boy y'all are in for some fun next chapter uwu


	10. Dog Days are Over

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **[Dog Days are Over](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wiDIObd8YaI)** by Florence and the Machine  
>  _Lungs_ (2008)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the usual comments and feedback are welcome statement.  
> also the last two sections of this chapter are straight pesterlogs, but they're not that long. they're just establishing who's in the clubs of note in this fic.

The third Tuesday of the school year is the campus' club activities day. Tables, staffed by members of the various organizations and clubs of the school, line the radiating paths from the fountain. Smiling, overly enthusiastic people greet the new students, and freshmen prowl the catered event like hungry cats at a rat factory. (Not that rat factories exist; that would likely be more of a rat sex club.) To the north of the fountain, in front of the commons building, tables are stocked with food. Burgers, salad, and hot dogs are available.

Naturally,  **DAVE STRIDER** has piled his plate high with burgers. He's sitting at one of the wrought iron tables in the plaza, eating one of these burgers.

Across from him, munching happily on a hot dog, John Egbert is busy rambling. “Yeah, so, the class is pretty good...” Dave only really tunes in for snippets. “Yeah, I'm looking at those clubs...”

Really, Dave isn't all that interested in any of the clubs. None of them seem up his alley, and it's not as if he  _knows_ anyone in any of them. Or, at least, he hasn't seen any of his few friends signing up for clubs. So, when he notices a familiar face in front of the colloquial gay club table, he springs on the opportunity. He excuses himself from John's strange little lecture about his life. (John shuts up, but he continues to doggedly follow Dave.) Then, as everyone would expect, he approaches.

At the moment he walks up, Karkat is busy studying some of the informational pamphlets on the table. As he had been Monday, he's using the generic wheelchair. Today, however, it seems someone is pushing him. This individual is a tall, slender man with olive skin and neatly combed hair. When he speaks, he does so with a prominent lisp. This man is, as we, the audience, should know, Karkat's roommate, Sollux. Dave, however, is not aware of this. All he knows is that the man seems to be just as disinterested as he is in the club. “Look, KK. you  _really_ want to join this club? It looks like the planned meeting time overlaps with the tabletop peeps, and that sucks. I signed up to join the tabletop club, and I think you did, too, right?”

Dave stays a yard or two back, simply listening to the exchange, as he tries to gauge when to insert himself into the situation.

Karkat, meanwhile, shrugs. “God. Sollux, you clueless piece of shit, you're pulling me away from the table. I can't fucking  _tell_ if I want to join the club when I can't see the shit on the table.”

“I told you to call someone else to be your personal chauffeur today, dumbass,” the other man, who Dave now knows to be Sollux, responds.

Meanwhile, the woman behind the table seems to take notice of the situation. She bears some similarities to Rose, but her skin is far darker (yet not as dark as Kanaya's), and her hair is several shades closer to brown that Rose's. Snake bite piercings and black lipstick compliment her full lips, which currently form a wide grin. According to the sticker on her shirt, her name is Roxy. Curiously enough, she passes by the two arguing men. Instead, she aims for Dave. She approaches and, after eyeing him over, says something unexpected. “The loud one is pretty cute, don't you think?”

“I... What?” Dave frowns. Behind his shades, he slowly blinks. “You think that?”

“Not really my type, but it looks to me that he's _your_ type. I also think he wants to join the club, so...” Roxy is interrupted.

“Dammit, Sollux. Fuck you. You're fired!” Karkat shoos the other man away.

And, with great vigor, Sollux scrambles off, in the direction of the aforementioned tabletop club. “I didn't want to do this, anyhow!” he calls.

Now, with Roxy back behind the table, Dave sees his chance. He approaches as casually as he can, yet he finds that his heart is fluttering oddly. His palms sweat, despite the fact that it's a lovely day outside, and there's a strangely pleasant warmth in the pit of his stomach. While most would identify such feelings as a burgeoning crush, he misidentifies them as the beginnings of a cold. “You thinking about joining this club?” he asks.

Karkat shrugs. He wraps his left arm around the back handle of his chair and pulls himself into what Dave can only assume to be a more comfortable position. He seems clumsier in the chair; his movements are less precise, and it's obvious he's not familiar with using it. Nonetheless, he pulls up to the table and, now uninhibited, studies the informational pamphlets and signup sheet. All the while, he responds to Dave, “No, I'm looking at this table specifically so I can deny myself permission to join the group. What the fuck sort of question is that?”

Behind the table, Roxy snickers.

Dave simply reciprocates the shrug. “Look, it's just a question. No need to go riding your white horse into the pissed off sunset.”

“Okay, whatever. Yeah, I'm joining the club.”

“So, you're gay?” Dave asks, brows furrowing.

Karkat rolls his eyes. “No, I'm bi. Anyhow, what does it fucking matter to you? Must you go and invade everyone's personal life with your shitty, counterfeit two cents?”

“Yup. That right there? That's my specialty. All day, every day, I'm fixin' up those invasive cars and plowing them right on into people's lives. Did they ask for me? Nah. Am I gonna' do it anyhow? Fuck, yeah!” Dave smirks, and that smirk grows in proportion to Karkat's confusion. Somehow, he derives a strange pleasure from getting a reaction from the other man. Perhaps it's somewhat like how he likes to prod John into reacting. His entire life has been filled with emotionally distant people, and something about a person wearing their heart on their sleeve drives him wild.

Not that Karkat could know any of this. No, he's absolutely oblivious to it all, and his instinctive need to react to anything thrown his way only add fuel to the fire. He scribbles his name onto the signup sheet, lists his email, and backs away. “Do you ever listen to the inane bullshit that flows so freely from your gurgling mouth, like water from the douchiest gargoyle, or do you just spew it out?”

“I ain't takin' time to throw down my rhymes. I just say what I think, Vantas, get with the times.”

“Oh, so now we're Doctor Seuss?”

“I ain't the Cat in the fuckin' hat, dawg. My beats are far sicker than that.”

Though it's unknown to either Dave or Karkat, as both are so deeply entrenched in their strange bullshit, Roxy is snickering.

“Whatever. You're insufferable, and I've already scheduled myself a nighttime migraine with you tomorrow. I'm getting the hell out of here.” At this point, Karkat waves his hand in the air. He turns his chair around, and he swiftly departs. 

* * *

Away from the thick crowd, but still close enough to hear the lively colloquial hustling and bustling, **TAKASHI SHIROGANE** is busy engaging with the students. Though he's really supposed to be manning the table for the campus robotics and trivia clubs, his stomach is craving something. He's broken away from his obligations to grab a bite to eat and, in doing so, he noticed a pair of girls—one blonde, the other wearing a jade green hijab—sitting at a table, far from the action.

He approaches the pair for two reasons. The most obvious reason is that it's the last open seat, and he's not exactly about to sit in the grass. It might be mid-September, but there are still bugs. The second reason for his approach is that he's curious. Both women are familiar in appearance, and he's fairly certain he's seen the both before. He begins with business, however. As he nears, he speaks up, “Hey there. You guys find anything interesting at the career fair?” he jokes.

Both women look up at him, and the blonde is the first to speak. “I believe you mean the activities carnival,” she begins.

The other woman, wearing the hijab, finishes, “Unless you're joking, and that seems like a very professor-like joke, Professor Shirogane.”

“Do you mind if I sit here? There's no other spots open,” Shiro asks. After he receives two affirmative nods, he settles into place and begins eating his burger. He also continues the conversation. “So, you know who I am?”

“I know you from the academic catalogs, as well as the various news articles about your sensationalist hiring. I admire your intellect, Professor.” The blonde smiles, revealing perfectly straight but not paper white teeth. “I'm Rose, by the way.” She extends her hand.

Naturally, Shiro accepts the greeting.

As this occurs, the other woman provides an introduction. “I'm Kanaya. I know you from a burgeoning friendship with one of your students. Perhaps you know him? Karkat Vantas?” she asks. Unlike Rose, she simply nods her head; she doesn't offer her hand.

Not that this bothers Shiro. Her question is more important to him, and he knows the answer immediately. “Yeah, I know him. He's in my introductory programming class. He sits next to Pidge. I'm not sure if you know her, but she's another of my students. I mean... She's in my class, so that, by default, makes her a student of mine.” He shrugs. After taking another bite of his burger, which, while above the bar for the usual campus cafeteria fare, isn't exactly the best burger ever. “I believe both of you are also in a band K—” he stops himself. Revealing that he has close ties to a student to others isn't exactly the best idea. Instead, he rephrases his statement. “You're in the band that a friend of mine likes.”

“You mean the stupidly named Pensive Emoji group?” Kanaya volunteers, rolling her eyes. She makes no attempt to hide her disdain for the band name.

Rose, however, seems more than happy to acknowledge her involvement. “My apologies for my girlfriend. She's still a bit salty about us not using her proposed name, which I won't repeat aloud to a professor. Yes, we're both in the band.”

“Yeah, you guys did pretty good at the party a few days ago. Not sure how many other people actually  _remember_ the performance, but I do.”

“Glad to hear you enjoyed our performance,” Rose smiles.

Kanaya, too, offers a small smirk. “While we're on the topic of complimenting one another, Karkat has mentioned that he likes your course. He has noted it's ‘not the worst course I've ever had’, and that's extremely high praise from him.”

Now, it's Shiro's turn to be taken aback. He finds himself grinning wildly. While his fellow staff have often complimented his work, he's never had a student do so. “I'm glad to hear it. He's a good student.” At this point, he checks his watch. Taking into account the time it had taken him to get the food, in addition to how long he's been talking with Rose and Kanaya, he's been absent from his tables for a solid fifteen minutes. This, he decides, is far too long. Thus, after swiftly downing the rest of his dinner, he rises to his feet. “Hate to just run off in the middle of a discussion, but I have to get back to my table. I'll see you two around campus, okay?”

“Sounds fine with us,” both women respond in unison.

Shiro nods, waves, and jogs back to the tables for his sponsored clubs.

* * *

\-- timaeusTestified [TT] began a group chat on permanent board SKAIA COLLEGE ROBOTICS CLUB --  
\-- timaeusTestified [TT] joined the group chat at 18:01! --

TT: Hello, fellow robotics enthusiasts! I'm glad to see how many of you have signed up for the interest group. As PesterChum is the school-sponsored instant messaging service, I will be relaying most messages to interested parties via this plastform. Not to say that I won't shoot y'all an email from time to time, so keep an eye on those, too! If, at any point, you are no longer interested in receiving messages or alerts from us, feel free to leave this chat.  
TT: Now that the formalities are out of the way, let's chum it up. I'm Dirk, the leader of this group.

\-- golgothasTerror [GT] joined the group chat at 18:09! --

GT: And i'm jake dirk's dashing swain.  
GT: I'm also the vice president of this establishment so if you have any queries and dirk isn't online direct them my way pals!

TT: Our first meeting will be next week, on Monday, at 6:00 PM. Is this an acceptable time for you bros?

GT: That time is aces with me my number one chum!

TT: Bro... I already know that. You're sitting right next to me, typing with your index fingers like a fucking neolithic cave-dwelling species of technologically inept man. You don't need to alert me to a fact I already know.  
TT: But I still love you, so we're cool.

\-- installWizard [IW] joined the group chat at 18:12! --  
\-- bakingBro [BB] joined the group chat at 18:12! --

TT: Oh! What the fuck is up, my robotically-minded bros?

IW: okay. first of all i'm not a bro.

GT: Oh crikey!

BB: hey so is jake australian or something, because that's some weird slang.

TT: Unfortunately, that's just how he spins his sick beats. And, in this sense, I'm using ‘sick’ as a descriptor meaning both “incredibly dope” and “the state of being ill”.

GT: Fair enough dirk.

IW: this is going to be a fucking dumpster fire of a club.

TT: But it's my dumpster fire, so turn that frown upside down, miss bro, because this is going to be the best robotics club you've ever had the fortune of laying your eyes upon.

* * *

\-- tipsyGnostalgic [TG] opened a group chat on permanent board SKAIA RAINBOW ALLIANCE --  
\-- tipsyGnostalgic [TG] joined the group chat at 16:00! --

TG: hey, nerds! what the up is fuk?  
TG: *wat the fuck is p?  
TG: ** what the fuck is ip

\-- uranianUmbra [UU] joined the group chat at 16:02! --

UU: i believe what roxy is trying to say is, “what the fUck is Up”?

\-- carcinoGeneticist [CG] joined the group chat at 16:03! --  
\-- gutsyGumshoe [GG] joined the group chat at 16:03! --

GG: My, my! It's a real party in here!  
GG: And, Roxy, are you drunk again?

TG: i am Not dung!  
TG: *drunk  
TG: i

\-- mulletLover [ML] joined the group chat at 16:06! --

TG: oh fuck the enter key  
TG: i spiled sudoku on my Keyboard

CG: You spilled a fucking Japanese puzzle game on your keyboard? How does this even happen? What sort of demonic forces are conspiring against the reality of this world to create such a series of events as spilling a *Japanese puzzle game* on your keyboard?

ML: Dude, chill. I think what she meant to say is that she spilled *soda* on her keyboard.

\-- loverBoy [LB] joined the group chat at 16:17! --

LB: what the up is fuck everyone

TG: oh so HE can say it!?

GG: I mean...  
GG: It seems he did this intentionally, so, sure?

LB: i do what i want my buds i'm lance sanchez

\-- turntechGodhead [TG] joined the group chat at 16:25! --

TG: damn there are an absolute assload of people here  
TG: you know how sims in the games pull fucking everything out of their ass  
TG: yeah this is what i'd imagine the inside of the ass of a sim would look like

TG: Now THAT's what i'm talkin about!

GG: ...

ML: I... Hey aren't you that guy from pensive emoji?

LB: oh god here he goes

ML: I fucking love that band!

TG: first of all guilty as fucking charged  
TG: second of all i'm flattered as fuck

TG: OH MY GOD WE FORGOT INTRODUCTIONS!  
TG: i'm Roxy and i'm President of gay Club!

UU: uwu yoU already said that, dear.  
UU: i'm calliope! i'm roxy's girlfriend and also the vice president!

CG: I'm Karkat. I don't have a title because I'm but a lowly foot-licking freshman, here to shine all the upperclassmen's shoes.

GG: Aw! You'll get a title, Karkat!  
GG: I'm Jane. I'm the secretary for this club. :B

ML: I'm keith, and i'm going to say the blue one is lance before he does anything stupid. Unfortunately, he's with me.

LB: i'm an idiot  
LB: but i'm your idiot

ML: I fucking know.

TG: wassup i'm dave strider

TG: Great! Now we all know each other this is gettin off to a great start!  
TG: we're goin to have a gear year!  
TG: *great

GG: Heck yeah! ♥

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as an aside, **dirk and roxy ARE NOT related to either rose or dave in this fic**


	11. Sous les Étoiles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **[Sous les Étoiles](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aPKsz3rf7kM)** Patrick Rocca  
>  _Les Misérables_ [Paris Revival Cast, Thèâtre Mogador] (1991)
> 
> There are also some other versions, which are also fucking bops. **[2017, Live concert edition](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FZ6i4yR6NzU)** / **[2009, Live](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KLditEiPDAI)** , personally a bit nasal for me / **[2008, Quebec cast](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oS6syQmUQEw)** , not too fond the instrumentation, but I'm also a sucker for the original instrumentation...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  ~~i'm a slut for les miz and i spent $200 to get tickets to see it a second time because fuck if i have adult money i might as well use it~~  
>  **MORE ART HISTORY! MORE ART HISTORY! MORE ART HISTORY! MORE ART HISTORY!** and also gays

\-- carcinoGeneticist [CG] began pestering grimAuxiliatrix [GA] at 11:23! --

GA: Why Hello Karkat What Is It That You Need Today  
GA: Karkat  
GA: Are You There

CG: Ugh. Yeah. Sorry. I had to do something.  
CG: I was contacting you to ask if you've seen Dave. He's supposed to be coming to my room to get tutored today, and I've sent him several messages, but the bastard hasn't actually responded.

GA: Well If I Remember Correctly Rose Said Dave Said That You Said You Would Cease Tutoring Him If He Was Late  
GA: However I Have Not Seen Him  
GA: Let Me Ask Rose

CG: You do that.

GA: Rose Says Dave Is Having A Day  
GA: Apparently He Is Very Stressed At The Moment  
GA: I Assume It Relates To His Poor Study Habits

CG: Okay. Thanks for the help, Kanaya.

GA: It Is Honestly No Problem

\-- carcinoGeneticist [CG] ceased pestering grimAuxiliatrix [GA] at 11:40! --

* * *

The last thing that a certain man, by the specific name of **DAVE STRIDER** , expects at 8:00 PM is to find Karkat Vantas standing outside of his window, banging on the outer wall of the dorm room with one crutch, and leaning most of his weight against the other. He doesn't expect to see a massive bag, marked with the Cheesecake Factory logo, sitting at the man's feet, either.

At this juncture, and in accordance with the author's style, one might expect for the word “naturally” to be said, but there is absolutely nothing natural about this situation. There is not a single goddamned thing that is natural about this situation, and, as such, no possible reaction can be described as “natural”. So, without any sort of worthwhile adverbial description, Dave opens the window. He looks out, to the spot at Karkat is standing, and does the only logical thing he can: “What the literal goddamned fuck are you  _doing_ , dude!?” Dave says.

Karkat shrugs. He approaches, places the bag of food at Dave's feet, and looks as if he's ready to clamber inside. After a moment, however, he seems to decide against it. Rather, he walks away, toward the door, and, after a minute or two, there's a knock.

Now,  _now_ , Dave naturally opens the door.

Karkat steps in, apparently more confident on his own feet today, and closely studies Dave. “A little, feathery, tweeting motherfucker told me you were having a bad day. Being in a bad mood is prime fuel for a shitty study session, so I brought you some food.” At this point, still balanced between his crutches, he kneels down. He digs into the bag, and names each item he pulls from its depths. “I consulted your sister for advice on what to get you. We have a nice, plain burger. Did ex-fucking-actly what Rose said. Cheese, double patties, tomatoes, lettuce, bacon, and mushrooms. We've got seasoned fries, and, finally, half of that motherfucking fancy piece of expensive shit Godiva chocolate cheesecake.” A huff of exertion leaves him as he stands back up and looks slightly upward, so that he meets Dave's gaze. “Eat it the fuck up, then we'll study.”

“I... I thought you said...” Dave begins.

“I know what I fucking said, dammit,” Karkat snaps. “And it was to intimidate you. Are you really that fucking dense!?”

“Yes,” Dave answers honestly.

Karkat rolls his eyes. He moves toward the nearest chair, which just so happens to be John's desk chair. In doing this, it becomes apparent that a metal brace is now secured to Karkat's leg, stopping just above the knee. It's now fairly obvious that his right leg is doing all the work, and his much more pronounced limp only makes this all the more apparent. When he sits, there follows a series of loud clicks, which come from him harshly shoving his foreleg down, so that it bends properly. Then, as if nothing has happened (and, for Karkat, nothing out of the ordinary has happened), he continues, “And, now, you're just staring at me. You're oggling at me like I'm a three-headed canine.”

“Look, it's just... You're digging for me to say something offensive, my dude. Do you  _want_ me to say something offensive?” inquires Dave, taking an instinctive step back. He's seen this before; he's been goaded into saying things he doesn't want to say, and he doesn't feel keen on being the subject of the consequences again.

Yet, when Karkat responds, there's a strange softness in his voice, a tone that communicates to Dave that he shouldn't be so uptight. “I've seen it before, dumbass. I've fucking lived it. Just say what you're thinking already. We won't be getting out of this stupid, self-imposed box of pussyfooting around the issue until you set straight into the steaming, feculent dog shit.”

Dave breathes in. He overpowers his better judgement, and lets loose what he's kept himself from saying. “What is it? Like, fuck, if you want me to be fuckin' real, what is it with you? Not just how you walk, but you're so damned open all the time. You're some freaky, ultra-readable book. You're large print, and you just give everyone a fuckin' magnifying glass to read you even better. What the fuck?”

“Okay,” Karkat folds his arms across his chest. His jaw sets. “First off, I'm not telling you what's wrong with me. That's not your information to know at this time, and fuck if I know if you'll ever have rights to my personal health. Secondly, it's called a personality. Mine is, apparently, different from yours. Fucking amazing, right?”

“I mean...”

“I'm  _not done_ ,” Karkat hisses, cutting Dave off. “I'm saying I get it. People are nosy pieces of shit, and, if they see something that doesn't immediately click in their feeble little minds, they just have to know what's happening. That's natural. You know what else is fucking natural?  _Expressing your fucking feelings_. Being some enigmatic douche-canoe isn't normal. You're. Not. Normal!” A harsh laugh, one that's too harsh and raspy to be a genuinely amused laugh, punctuates this. “No one on the godforsaken lump of rock in the middle of space is normal! It's some sort of bullshit construct, and it just so happens that, on that mythical sliding scale, I'm a goddamned twelve. And the scale? It should end at ten.

“So, yeah, sure. Whatever. You can  _ask the questions_ , but that sure as fuck doesn't guarantee I'll be doling out any answers like some dime store bingo ball machine. For now, all you need to know is absolute jack shit. Okay?” To top this tirade off, Karkat offers a jarringly polite smile, though it fades quickly. His arms unfold, and he rests his palms against his knees. “So, let's trade, shall we? You got to ask your dumbass questions, so I'll ask mine. What's with the 90's look? Shades indoors? No one does that any more, that's a fucking news flash for you.”

Dave, supposing that this offer of a question for a question is only fair, especially considering just how insensitive his was, responds, “My eyes are fucked. I have some killer photosensitivity, if that's worth anything, so taking them off really just gives me migraines.”

A nod. Karkat's anger seems to ebb away. When he speaks, his voice is softer. “You're not handling college well, are you?”

“I mean, it's not really that. It's something so different it's on another fuckin' planet, really. And you don't need to see that planet, because it's a whole load of bullshit, dude,” though he laughs, Dave's inner turmoil only churns more. If there's one thing he doesn't like people knowing, it's that he's  _technically_ homeless. He was given offers by Rose, Jade,  _and_ John to live with them, and he refused. Why? Because he knows  _someone_ would be looking for him. He knows  _someone_ would know where to find him, so he avoids it. “Dude,” he says, after a moment of silence, “I really appreciate the effort, but I'm just stuck solvin' this motherfucker of a puzzle on my own. I've gotta flip off of this solution like a ballerina, but not even Professor Layton could tackle this bitch.”

Karkat blinks. Once. Twice. Then, he shakes his head. “I didn't get a bit of that, Strider. You're talking out of your ass to me.”

“Good, my dude. My pal. That's the fuckin' point.” Dave smirks.

* * *

\-- installWizard [IW] began pestering carcinoGeneticist [CG] at 20:43! --

IW: hey do you know what the fuck our homework for shiro was?

CG: Who the fuck is Shiro? You mean Professor Shirogane?

IW: uuuuuuuuugh.  
IW: yeah. programming. whatever floats your boat. what was our homework for it?

CG: Well, first of all, it's due tomorrow morning, before class, at 10:00 AM.

IW: FUCK.

CG: Secondly, can't you look it up yourself? It'll take extraordinarily less energy to do that than to pester me about this, Pidge.  
CG: I know I'm your lab partner, but I'm not going to look up your homework for you.

IW: well did you do it?

CG: Of course I fucking did it.

IW: so you know what it is?

CG: Not off the top of my head. I'm not a pocket schedule, dumbass.

IW: _i guess i'll just have to fuck with pesterchum to get your attention then huh?_

CG: Dude, what the fuck did you just do?

IW: me? i'm just messing with pesterchum. why? is it freaking you out?  
IW: uwu

CG: Don't you fucking “uwu” me, dammit!

IW: uwu

CG: Fine! God! Just write the fucking assignment down next time, or bother someone else in our class. That Elric guy seems like a nerd, too. Ask him about it.  
CG: We had to code a simple button, that returned a positive value when clicked.

IW: awesome! thanks!  
IW: i will leave you alone now.

CG: Fucking thank God.

IW: uwu

\-- installWizard [IW] ceased pestering carcinoGeneticist [CG] at 20:58! --

* * *

After the harrowing and confusing ordeal with his programming lab partner, **KARKAT VANTAS** turns his attentions to the problem at hand. As of this current moment, he is to be tutoring Dave Strider in the ways of not being an absolute piece of shit when it comes to art history. Considering how far behind the other man is when it comes to notes, this won't be an easy task. As far as Karkat can tell, Dave hasn't retained a single word the professor has said for the entire course, and he's now the fool who has to make it happen. Not that he's complaining; his last session lasted three hours, and brought in $30. He will, however, maintain that he is very, very frustrated about the lack of progress.

“Tell me about  _Napoleon Visiting the Plague Victims of Jaffa_ ,” Karkat asks.

Dave, who is currently spinning around in his desk chair, shrugs. “It's a painting. And it's by some dead French guy. And it shows Napoleon. And that fucker? Holy shit, that fucker is just chilling with some plague victims. It's wild. Oh, and they're in Jaffa.”

“Who painted it?” Karkat presses.

“Some dead French guy,” Dave repeats.

From his perch, in his lofted bed, John volunteers an actual answer. “Isn't it by some gross denim guy?”

A loud, distressed groan escapes Karkat. He buries his face in his hands and lets forth a poorly muffled yell. “NO! God, motherfucking shit! The buck-toothed nerd,  _who isn't even in our fucking class_ , might I add, has a closer answer than you, Dave. It's Antoine-Jean Gros. What year is it? I don't even need a specific year, just... god. I'd ascend straight to the status of a Bodhisattva if you even get the century right.”

“Oh, damn, it's the 1800's, right?”

“Good God, you got one thing right!” Karkat throws his hands in the air, as if to praise the heavens, before continuing, “Look, it was done in 1804. Not that it matters. Just get the decade right. It was important because—”

To Karkat's surprise, Dave cuts him off. “The dude commissioned it to show how fuckin' dope he was, Vantas. I already told you that. Like, ‘Oh, shit, I'm Napoleon. I'm so cool and god-like I can just waltz in a field of plague corpses and nothing will hurt me! I'm also really tall, which means my dick is also pretty fuckin' big, right? Ha ha! It's me!’ That's what the painting's about,” he shrugs, as if him rattling off a bastardized, but still technically correct, evaluation of the art is no big deal. At this point, he's also busy repeatedly assembling and disassembling a regular office pen.

“So you  _are_ learning some things,” Karkat says, absolutely elated that some of this is starting to sink in. “Give me examples of how it shows that.”

“I don't fuckin' know. Uh... We'd see the picture during the test, right?”

Though he sighs, Karkat has to admit that Dave is right on that front. He opens up his laptop and [pulls up the painting](https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/1/19/Antoine-Jean_Gros_-_Bonaparte_visitant_les_pestif%C3%A9r%C3%A9s_de_Jaffa.jpg).

“Ew, that's disgustin' lookin',” Dave mutters.

“They're dying of the fucking plague, Strider. They're dying. Of the plague.”

“Okay, well, Bones-a-lot ain't covering his mouth, for one. So he's probably next on the plague's shit list. And he's also reaching out to stroke that one guy's nipple—”

“Please say you won't write like this on the test.” Karkat, again, buries his face in his hands. Dave is, indeed, correct, but the way he expresses his statement isn't anything near academically appropriate. In fact, Karkat isn't sure it's even appropriate for him to be saying in a casual academic setting. “Just... You're right. That's all right.”

“Wasn't it in the hair studio, too?” Dave comments.

John offers a snort of laughter from his bed.

Karkat sighs. “It was in the  _salon_ , Dave. An exhibition of art, not a hair studio. It's called the  _salon_. Maybe, if you're feeling  _really fucking bold_ , you can push it and say the  _Salon de Paris_.”

“Oh, shit, so we're just tossing out French shit, now?  _Hon hon hon! Baguette!_ Hell yeah!”

“This tutoring business is a fucking train wreck,” Karkat grumbles. “You've got that down. One painting. You've demonstrated that your infinitesimally tiny little brain can handle storing information about  _one_ painting out of dozens that we've covered. But, hey, that might as well be a fucking start.”

“You bet your sweet man-berries it is, Vantas,” Dave says this with a smug smile. He waggles his brows ridiculously.

And it takes Karkat all his energy to avoid laughing. If he laughs, it will only encourage further tomfoolery, and, while he loves earning more money, he is growing incredibly tired. “Let's just cut straight into the chest cavity of this bastard. is this painting propaganda?”

“Are chihuahuas cute a fuck? Yes. Yes they are. The answer is the same to both questions, pal.”

There's a brief pause, during which Karkat briefly considering cutting off any and all further attempts to tutor Dave, but his wallet protests. So, against his logical judgement, he nods. “We're very, very slowly getting somewhere. We're going the pace of a fucking half-dead snail, but we're getting somewhere.” He retracts his computer, and [pulls up another image](https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/f/fd/David_-_Napoleon_crossing_the_Alps_-_Malmaison2.jpg), thus beginning the process anew. “Tell me about this painting...”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the last painting is _Napoleon Crossing the Alps_ (ca. 1801-1805) by Jacques-Louis David, just so you knoooow


	12. Nandemonaiya

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [**Nandemonaiya**](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TPmvTGvhHas) by RADWIMPS  
>  _Your Name (Original Soundtrack)_ , 2016

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the break in updates! i've been working some and also building up my art and stuff. (if you're interested in my art, my art blog can be found [here](tt40art.tumblr.com)!) i don't currently have another chapter ready, nor do i have an update schedule, but i don't want to abandon this story. i'm just kinda out of ideas.

The air is cool, crisp, and devoid of any hints of warmth; nonetheless, it is a pleasant day. Summer has officially died, murdered and replaced by autumn, as the yearly ritual goes, and a certain  **DAVE STRIDER** is absolutely loving it. While he can tolerate heat, having grown up in Texas, he's unaccustomed to humid heat. He understands dry heat, not the oppressive, smothering, and damp air of the east coast. As such, he draws a great amount of joy from being able to step outside without immediately bursting into flames and sweat. In fact, he enjoys the weather so much that he's eating his lunch outside, at one of the many wrought iron tables in the main patio, beneath the shade of several towering oaks.

His roommate, John, sits across from him. “You guys have any gigs coming up soon?” he asks.

Dave shrugs. He bites into an admittedly disappointing meatball sub. “We have one on about a week. It'll be at Brewster's.”

“The little café at the corner, right? In front of the train tracks?” John asks for clarification.

And, as conversations often go, the inquiry is met with an answer. “Yup. It's twelve bucks to get into the venue, but that nets you the nightly performance and all that cool shit. Alcohol is being served. Not that any of us  _can_ drink.” A casual shrug follows. After readjusting his shades, Dave pulls out his phone and begins to mindlessly scroll through his Tumblr feed. (He'd abandon the site in a heartbeat, were it not for the gratuitous amount of followers he's accumulated through it. Such numbers invariably provide validation, which fulfills a need for constant contact, which Dave often fails to acknowledge he even has.)

“By the way,” John speaks up again, “I'm going home next weekend.”

“So the dorm is all mine?” Dave smirks.

John counters with his own cocky grin. “Yeah, invite Karkat over and bang him all night long.”

Normally pale skin turns bright pink. A loud slurp is immediately followed by a series of choked coughs. After these subside, Dave manages to squeeze out a reply, “What the  _fuck_ , John!?”

“Look, we all know that you've got a huge crush on 'em. Just admit it.” Unlike Dave, John is completely composed. He casually sips on his own coffee and snacks away on his lunch without a care in the world. “Have you finished all your homework?”

“Are you kidding me?” Dave laughs, but it’s a nervous laugh. It’s obviously forced, as is the cool facade he puts up afterwards. “I sure as fuck did not.”

“Fair.” John gulps down the last of his coffe. He sets the cup down, glances to his phone, and shrugs. “Anyhow, I better get going. So much to do, so much to see—”

“So what’s wrong with taking the back seat?” Dave finishes, with an anxious smirk spread across his face. “I get it, you’re going to hang with Spider Bitch again. Go do it.”

“Vriska is okay, she’s just not a warm and fuzzy person. But whatever, she’s still kind of a Spider Bitch.” After tossing his bag over his shoulder and offering  brief wave, John leaves.

* * *

“And you believe that...?” **KANAYA MARYAM** , from her spot atop the plush jade green sheets of her little-used dorm bed, begins to inquire.

Rose, meanwhile, sips at her freshly brewed tea. Judging by the aroma, which began to fill the room when the brewing commenced and is now the overpowering scent of the atmosphere, it's peach. Judging by the smile on her face, she's enjoying it. “I believe,” she begins by finishing the inquiry, “That our dear friends are very, very gay for one another.”

“Are you discussing the recent episode of _9-1-1_ Are you referencing Buck and Eddie?”

A snort of laughter, one that's just exaggerated enough to be nerdy, but soft enough to retain some semblance of grace, escapes Rose. “No, dear, I mean  _our_ friends. My brother and your friend, the drummer.”

“You think I'm friends with Karkat?” The assumption surprises Kanaya. She, personally, wouldn't consider herself a friend of Karkat's. Sure, she's acquainted herself with the new drummer. He seems nice enough, and he's certainly not the clueless and confrontational bastard Dave makes him out to be, but he's not exactly her best pal. And, of course, she makes sure she says this. “I'm not his friend,  _per se_ , I just spend some time with him.” At this juncture, she ponders her statement. Upon further thought, she supposes she  _might_ meet the technical definition of friend, but... “Okay, perhaps.”

“Fair enough.” Rose flips open her textbook. She begins—or, rather, she  _resumes_ —her readings on the surprisingly-uninteresting-when-read-as-an-assignment intricacies of Pavlovian conditioning. “This is the worst book I have ever had the displeasure of perusing. What an absolute and irrefutable waste of my precious time.” The book slams shut, and she folds her hands behind her head. A dramatic sigh escapes her as she leans back, against the wall her bed rests against. “How are your classes going?”

“Quite well,” Kanaya shrugs. It seems the interesting, plot-relevant discussion has concluded, and that the banalities of small talk have taken its place. As a small smile creeps across her features, she allows herself to relax and sink into the plush throw pillows surrounding her.

* * *

If there is one thing that he absolutely, positively, and without any sort of sensation-that-might-be-defined-as-anything-but-certainty _hates_ , it's wearing uncomfortable outfits. **KARKAT VANTAS** loathes wearing anything less than the plushest and most luxurious of clothes. In fact, his favorite outfit is a sweatshirt and sweatpants. This outfit—this custom-tailored suit jacket and loose-but-overly-starched slacks—is everything _but_ that. (Not that  _he_ got this dumbass piece-of-shit fabric covering for his torso made; it was a well-meaning but unwanted gift from his doting mother.) Of course, he has no other options. He can't just wear sweatpants to a goddamned school presentation. And, not only is it a presentation, it's his  _first_ presentation. And, of course, it's with Dave.

As such, he arrives twenty minutes before class. He's brought his laptop and his notebook, and he's ready  _as fuck_ for this presentation.

So, of course, Dave shows up five minutes late. He arrives sipping one of those stupid iced coffee drinks, clearly from Starbucks, and dressed in a dirty, stained red sweatshirt and a pair of torn jeans. And, as always, he wears those stupid shades.

“You absolute piece of steaming shit,” Karkat growls. His tangles his fingers in his hair. “Don't tell me you're wearing  _that_ to the presentation.”

“Mhm.” Dave slurps up some more of his coffee, intentionally being as loud as possible. (Or, at least, it seems he's trying to be as loud as possible.) “What the fuck else am I supposed to wear?”

“Something that doesn't make you look like the raging boner, which constantly ejaculates nothing but the purest juice of apathetic piss, that you really are,” Karkat responds. “God. Motherfucking dammit. Fucking shit. You're so damned dense. You're as high as hell all the time, and on  _what_!? On the air you fucking breathe? Are you... Are you constantly puffing joints, like an asthmatic nerd puffs his dumbass-vapor-filled inhaler?”

In the face of this insurmountable ranting, Dave remains inexplicable calm. In fact, a small smirk is spreading across his face, even as Karkat continues.

And, faced with this, Karkat slowly winds down. The rising heat of his anger slowly deflates, until he's left, chest heaving, and gripping the edge of the table with a white-knuckled grasp.

In return, the smirk on Dave's face fades. His brows furrow, and he leans in a bit closer, until Karkat can make out every pore on his own face in his reflection, against the dark lenses of the other man's shades. When he speaks, his warm breath—tinged with the oddly aromatic scent of tobacco, mead, and (as identified by the author, and not by the viewpoint character) overcooked macaroni and cheese. “You okay?”

“Perfectly fine,” Karkat snaps back. This is, of course, a lie. Not that he'll admit to Dave.

Nonetheless, the blond notices otherwise. While he  _does_ retreat, he only does so slightly. He inches back, yet continues to remain squarely within Karkat's personal bubble. “Calm down some. You're blowing steam out of your ears, dude. Chill.” At this point, he does something strange. He reaches out and, after a brief hesitation, he gently rests his hand on Karkat's shoulder.

And, again, Karkat deflates. His shoulders relax. The tension in his jaw relaxes. Even so, he shoves away the kind touch. “I'm fine.” Karkat diverts his gaze, so that he stares at the floor. “Let's just get to talking about the presentation.”

“Fair enough.” With a small shrug, Dave strides coolly to the window. He opens it, pulls out a cigarette, and lights it. After a few puffs, he flicks the ashes out the open window, all while Karkat looks on in disgruntled and joyless awe.


	13. Hier of Grief

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **[slides in]** GUESS WHO'S KINDA BACK!?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CONTENT WARNINGS: dave gets high and drunk, so we can obviously tell this is gonna be wild

The air is cool, but not cold. It’s not like the stinging winds of deep winter, which seem to drill through your skin and accost your bones with a mind-numbing blast of pure, unrepentant ice. This is good for a particular **KARKAT VANTAS** , as he’s not exactly keen on cold weather. He never has been. His father always told him it was because he was born in the summer, but he thinks it’s little more than the fact that cold air makes his joints ache.

At this moment in time, he sits at the fringes of the fountain plaza. He isn’t expecting much traffic today, as it’s Sunday, and the crowds from the recent homecoming have departed.. One leg is stretched out straight, while the other is folded over it. His laptop rests on his lap, as the name of the device implies, and his fingers tap diligently at its keys.

“You understand that prolonging your use of crutches will be detrimental to your long term health, do you not?” The voice of his doctor buzzed through his earbuds.

And, in return, Karkat shrugs. His voice is filled with cynical resignation as he responds, quite flatly, “I don’t care. I could not fucking care less, Aranea.”

”Okay. Well...” There’s a pained pause, punctuated by a disgruntled sigh. “I’m having an actual wheelchair shipped to your dorm, anyhow. It can’t hurt to have a backup.”

“Wonderful. I’ll put it in the pile of other medical shit I don’t use,” Karkat quips before hanging up.

As the line goes dead, a figure approaches. A loud yawn precedes them sitting down, next to Karkat.

Not one to be bothered on his day alone, Karkat prepares to say something, only to pause as the figure’s identity becomes apparent.

“Of fucking course,” Karkat huffs, eyeing over the blond now sitting beside him. “I can’t have a single day by myself, can I?”

“Nope.” Dave shrugs. He seems to smirk, but that might just be a trick. No. Certainly, it was the sun playing tricks against the contours of his face. “You want me to leave?”

“Uhm... Fucking yes.”

“Tough titties.” A metallic click precedes the flickering of a flame. Dave raises his lighter to his mouth, in which he holds a cigarette, and breathes in. As the flame goes out, the end of the cigarette begins to pulsate a brilliant red. Tendrils of smoke dance upwards, snaking into the sky. “You want me to leave now?”

“Yes,” repeats Karkat, his irritation growing. “What, are you fucking stupid?”

“I mean, we’ve seen my art history grades.”

“Fucking insufferable shit stain.”

“Why, thank you. I try my best.”

Karkat doesn’t dare respond. At this point, he’s realized that a response is exactly what Dave wants.

Or, maybe not. Without so much as a prompt, Dave continues, “I saw Pidge on my way outside. She said that there’s a coding error in your half of the lab. She wouldn’t say what it was, but she’s said something was wrong. Insightful, huh?”

Again, Karkat remains silent.

And, again, Dave presses on, “Yeah, so, band practice...” Here, he pauses. He offers an expectant look, one that you’d expect a child to give rather than a young adult, before the pointlessness of the gesture seem to settle. He clears his throat before continuing, “We’ll be working from a friend’s house nearby. Can you handle that?”

“Are you implying that I’m so incapable of existing that I cannot trudge however far I need to go to reach this location? A location so fucking sacred that you daren’t tell me where the fuck it even is? Is that what you’re implying?” Karkat shoots back.

Now, there’s a reaction. Dave’s gaze lowers, and a look of defeat crosses his features. Though he tries to cover with a nervous laugh, Karkat has gotten what he’s been looking for; Dave is, without a doubt, intensely and overwhelmingly uncomfortable. “I... I mean... Uh... I didn’t mean it like that. I... uh...”

All throughout this stammered excuse for an apology, Karkat offers a slow, smug nod.

“You... Uh... hm. Fuck. Look, I didn’t mean to be implying anything like that, dude. Sorry. I’m just kinda’ worried you’ll bail. I’ll just... I’ll send the details later.” Dave punctuates his commentary by rising from his seat. He gathers his things, and silently departs.

Karkat, meanwhile, savors his hard-won silence.

* * *

The party is about the level of “oh, fuck, wow, that’s not good” anyone would expect from a campus whose main claim to overwhelming fame was being named the top party school of nineteen-ninety-whatever. There’s loud music, booze, party games, and, as Dave is pleased to discover, there’s the standard fare of illicit substances.

In fact, at this moment in time, Dave Strider has indulged in a fair mixture of alcoholic beverages and the colloquial devil’s lettuce.

Sprawled our over the sofa of the Alpha Sigma Sigma frat house, he lounges like a king. His world is spinning, his worries are gone, and his thoughts seem to perpetually drift to Karkat.

In fact, every time his mind wanders to the topic, he feels as if he’s forgetting something...

“Look, you can’t just grab life by the balls and scream,” someone nearby mumbles. In the haze that is his mental state, Dave somehow recognizes the man as Lance. “You have to try and go somewhere with it, eh?”

Keith (who is—unbeknownst to our viewpoint narrator, but as I am now divulging to you, the reader—the only person in the room who hasn’t done any weed, though he has had some to drink,) lets forth a low growl. “You’re not making any sense, you idiot.”

“Nah!” Hiccups Lance, shaking his head vigorously, “You gotta have some sort of plan. You gotta take that shit and run to the endzone with it, right?”

The black-haired young man sighs. Grabbing onto the wrist of his boyfriend, he head so for the door. “That’s it. You’re done partying for the night.”

“You’re so cute when you’re pissed at me,” swoons Lance, just prior to the front door slamming shut.

Dave, meanwhile, considers the dubious advice he’s just heard. While his thought process is impossibly muddied, he manages to grasp onto some semblance of a meaning. He fishes his phone from his pocket and opens Pesterchum.

\-- turntechGodhead [TG] began pestering carcinoGeneticist [CG] at 21:31! --

TG: hye ewhats up my dide  
TG: ewhat yoi doin

CG: ...  
CG: Are you fucking drunk?

TG: yes  
TG: and mabye a littyle high

CG: Dave, it's Sunday. Do you understand that? It's fucking Sunday. Tomorrow? Tomorrow will be, surprise! Fucking *Monday*, and you probably have class. What in the name of all the omnipotent deities I can possibly think of do you think you're doing!?

TG: grabbin lyfe by te balls

CG: That makes even less sense than the banal bullshit you usually spew, and that's saying a lot.

TG: o your cute when you angyr  
TG: (￣▽￣)ノ

CG: Mother of God.  
CG: I cannot fucking believe this.

TG: fuckin brelieve it like nahrudo

CG: ...  
CG: ...  
CG: ... you mean “Naruto”?

TG: believe it

CG: This is unbelievable.

TG: no irt's brlikeve  
TG: belibe it

CG: Oh my God. Fuck you, Dave Strider. I'm sending Sollux over to get you and take you back to your stupid dorm.

TG: oh your not cominge my night in shinning armor  
TG: save me karkst

CG: I am far too tired and have too much much shit to do for my education. You know, that thing you're paying out your ass to receive here? Yeah. That? I'm actually interested in it, so no fucking thanks. Sollux will be over soon. Be nice to him, or I will kill you.

TG: oh oky :(

\-- carcinoGeneticist [CG] ceased pestering turntechGodhead [TG] at 21:52! --

* * *

\-- carcinoGeneticist [CG] began pestering tentacleTherapist [TT] at 21:52! --

CG: Hello, Rose, I'm contacting you to inform you that your useless sack of genetically similar material just sent me a series of frankly invasive and disgusting messages.  
CG: And by “disgusting”, I mean he appeared to be making rudimentary, brain-dead attempts at flirting. Now, rest assured that your cousin-brother-uncle-whatever-he-fucking-is *cannot* flirt, and his attempts have fallen upon the most disinterested and deafest of ears, to put it crassly.  
CG: Oh, he was also both high and drunk.

TT: Not again.

CG: “Again”? Ah, so this waste of space does this regularly? How absolutely, unfathomably surprised I am. You cannot and will never believe how shocked I am to hear that Dave “The Tool” Strider is, indeed, a massive fucking tool. Smack me across the face with my own irreverent consternation, as if it were the most thoroughly frozen and painfully stiff fish in the ice box.  
CG: All of that is to say that I fully expected this sort of bullshit from him.

TT: How very... colorful of you...

CG: Well, what Strider does is none of my business. I'll just conclude by sending you a screenshot of our pathetic, offensive excuse for an interaction, and leave it at that. I wish you the best of luck in your studies.

\-- carcinoGeneticist [CG] sent a screenshot! --  
\-- carcinoGeneticist [CG] ceased pestering tentacleTherapist [TT] at 22:09! --

* * *

\-- mulletLover [ML] began pestering palaDad [PD] at 22:10! --

ML: Just so you know, lance and pidge won't be in class.

PD: oh?

ML: Both of them partied way too hard, so don't expect to see them in class. I'm sending you this message because i'm the only one coherent enough right now to actually think of sending the professors messages about them.

PD: okay... uh  
PD: thanks for letting me know?  
PD: you know what? i'm just going to... forget i ever read this, keith...

ML: I wish i could.

\-- mulletLover [ML] ceased pestering palaDad [PD] at 21:17! --

* * *

**DAVE STRIDER** wakes at his usual time, albeit with a pounding headache and a sense of “oh, fuck, I've done something bad”. As far as he's concerned, he's been asleep since he was unceremoniously dropped in his dorm bed by Karkat's lisping, disagreeable friend, Sollux. And, with a hangover like this, he sure as hell won't be going to class any time soon. At least, he won't be subjecting himself to academic duties today.

So, after cracking his knuckles, he opens up his laptop...

\-- turntechGodhead [TG] began pestering tentacleTherapist [TT] at 09:01! --

TG: oh my god rose what the fuck did i just do  
TG: rose  
TG: rose  
TG: rose  
TG: ROSE I SEE YOU FUCKIN READING THESE

TT: Oh! Oh, dear! I'm so sorry. It seems I neglected to reply to my dearest brother's messages. From the bottom of my heart, accept my most pretensionless of apologies.  
TT: Now that this has been said, I must say, and not to brag, but...  
TT: Ha ha ha. Hee hee hee. Hoo hoo hoo. So on and so forth. I, quite honestly, am deriving an obscene amount of pleasure watching the spoils of your ill-advised partying. But, please, come to me in the future when you have problems. As your sister, I am always here to help. ♥

TG: oh my god rose fuck you

TT: I know.

\-- tentacleTherapist [TT] ceased pestering turntechGodhead [TG] at 09:15! --


	14. Caravan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I can't find the version I have on vinyl, which is fuckin wild, so [here's a sad substitute](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fUihjsBztHY)........

LANCE SANCHEZ wakes to the realization that Keith is sitting at the end of his bed.

Black hair falls into a barely tanned face, and eyes the color of an overcast sky are trained intently on a book titled, _I Can Chiaroscuro, and You Can, Too: The Basics of Oil Painting_. The minute movement is sensed, however, this unwavering gaze turns, landing squarely on a very, very hungover freshman. “Oh. You’re awake.”

“Ugh,” Lance massages his temples. Clearly, he did something wrong last night. “I feel like shit.”

“What a fucking surprise,” Keith responds, flatly. “You partied your ass off last night, and I think you took a few too many hits from the communal stash of weed. But, hey, what do I know? I’ve never done it.”

“Yeah, right,” Lance smirks, though he finds himself shielding his eyes from the scant traces of light, which stream through a crack between the windowsill and the curtain. “I didn’t drink anything, did I?”

Keith smirks. “Oh, of course you did.”

“I’m never partying again...”

“Well, maybe you’ve finally learned a lesson, huh?” As he concludes his mini lecture, Keith hands over a glass of ice water. “Here, keep your dumb ass hydrated.”

Lance responds by sticking out his tongue, thus demonstrating his outstanding maturity. “First of all, thanks, Dad. Second of all, isn’t is just damn sweet that you care so much?”

“I can put arsenic in here at any time.” A nonchalant shrug punctuates the statement, and the reopening of his book indicates that Keith is done talking.

* * *

\-- turntechGodhead [TG] began pestering grimAuxiliatrix [GA] at 09:15! --

GA: Hello Why Are You Pestering Me Brother of Rose Lalonde  
GA: As I Understand It You Have Gotten Yourself Into Quite A Pickle So To Speak So I Believe This Must Be The Reason You Are Contacting Me Am I Correct

TG: ...

GA: I Assume This Is A Confirmation Of My Suspicions  
GA: Silence Is Tantamount To Agreement I Suppose

TG: ...

GA: Ah It Seems Your Usually Excessive Talking Has Taken A Sabbatical How Lovely  
GA: Just So You're Aware Karkat Left Me A Message For You Should You Contact Me And I Shall Now Type It Exactly As He Said In His Exact Words With His Exact Diction So That You May Clearly Grasp The Gravity of The Metaphorical Pickle You Have Gotten Stuck In  
GA: IF DAVE TRIES TO CONTACT YOU, JUST TELL THAT STUPID PIECE OF SHIT TO FUCK OFF.  
GA: I Believe His Stance Is Quite Clear Don't You

TG: okay you're way less help than i thought you'd be

GA: As I Understand It You Were Belligerent And Intoxicated So I Must Say That I Am Guilty As Charged

TG: fuckin shit no one wants to help do they  
TG: do i have to fix all of my problems myself

GA: Well You Did Just Admit That It Is Indeed Your Problem And Therefore No One Aside From You Is Really Obligated To Offer Advice Or Aid So I Think We Have Found An Answer To Your Question Have We Not

TG: okay well if he contacts you for some fuckin reason i clearly won't understand because i'm but a woefully clueless oaf of a human being and incapable of being socially acceptable at any given point in my sad little life tell him i said i'm sorry

GA: Hm  
GA: I Will Consider It

TG: ... thanks i guess

GA: Ah  
GA: One Last Thing

TG: if you're gonna be circlejerkin me more we can just cut the chat off now that would be mighty kind

GA: As Amusing As That Sounds Right Now I Actually Have Another Important Message To Relay To You  
GA: This One Is From Your Sister Who Also Happens To Be In My Room At This Exact Second And I Shall Relinquish Control Of My Keyboard Over To Her So That She May Communicate Her Message To You Directly

TG: kay

GA: I'm not sure if you noticed, but Roxy posted in the colloquial gay club's message board. The first meeting is tomorrow. You will be coming. I am taking you.

TG: and maybe i don't want to go

GA: Well, if that's the case, then I suppose the appropriate response would be something like...  
GA: That Would Be Tough Titties Dave You're Going  
GA: Thank you, dear.

TG: ugh

\-- turntechGodhead [TG] ceased pestering grimAuxiliatrix [GA] at 09:28! --

* * *

**KARKAT VANTAS** arrives to class exactly five minutes before it starts. His flash drive is ready, and he's got his homework uploaded by the time class has begun, as the syllabus requires. Of course, he could have just uploaded it through the intranet, but that would be too simple. Or, rather, it would be too hard, seeing as his laptop seems to be incapable of playing nicely with the school's intranet. The lab has also been available for him to upload his files at any time, provided his carried his key fob with him, but he has simply not cared enough to actually get into the classroom to upload his files.

“Did you fix the programming error?” Pidge mutters under her breath. “When I checked your code, it was giving me a recursion error.”

“Of fucking course I fixed it. I'd like my grade to be nice,” quips Karkat, as he rolls up the sleeves of his black hand-knit sweater (gifted to him by his grandmother).

Pidge rolls her eyes. She adjusts her glasses, holding the right lens between the corresponding hand's index finger and thumb to do so. “Damn, you're just like Keith. Grouchy, rude, and totally unapproachable. I'm sure Lance would love it.”

“Sorry, but I'm already taken by my own overwhelming sense of self-loathing.”

“Edgy, too. What, you get pissed with your band leader boyfriend?”

At this point, Karkat feels heat rush to his cheeks. While he doesn't immediately fly off into a loud tirade, it takes all the self-control he has not to do so. Instead, in a low, obviously angry hiss, he counters. “He is  _not_ my boyfriend. And I would never in five million years — no! Never in five million  _centuries_! I'd never so much as fucking entertain the abysmal notion of dating that stuck-up bastard.”

“Hmph. Suit yourself. That's exactly what Keith said about Lance.”

Karkat opens his mouth to respond.

Pidge, however, gets her commentary in first. “Shh. Shiro's coming.”

“Which means you're fucking lucky.” With his dignity badly bruised, and his metaphorical tail between his hyperbolic legs, Karkat concedes defeat.

Not that he's admitting he would ever date Dave “Absolute Buffoon of a Supposed Human Being” Strider. No! Never! Rather, he admits that Pidge has the final word in this argument, and that it's useless to try and belabor it any longer. If there's one thing that Karkat knows about academics—though he knows many others things, too—it's that fist fights are generally frowned upon. He also knows that, if this line of discussion continues, that's exactly where the argument will lead. So, with the wisdom of umpteen very, very wise sages, he keeps his mouth firmly shut.

* * *

“It can’t be that bad.”

Upon hearing his roommate’s commentary, DAVE STRIDER offers a loud, exasperated groan. “It is absolutely that fuckin’ bad, Egbert. We are on the reddest of red alerts. Code fuckin’ zero, all hands on deck, the reputation ship has sailed.”

As he slowly spins in his desk chair, John shrugs. “I don’t see the problem. Don’t you like Karkat?”

“NO!” Dave thunders. He reaches up, and his fingers tangle themselves in his hair. “I hate him! I mean... uh... He’s attractive, I guess, in a weird sort of way. He’s obviously not in the business for... I don’t know. God!” Asbhis fingers work themselves free, he covers his face. “I don’t know what I’m doing. He’s just so...”

“Loud?”

“Yeah, but...”

“Rude!?”

“THAT, TOO! But there’s something else. He’s just...” Another sigh. “I don’t like him, but he’s... I mean... I’d be happy to be friends with him, I guess...?”

“Then apologize and talk to him,” John’s response makes it rightfully seem as if this isn’t a big issue. And, indeed, it shouldn’t be. By all accounts, most “normal” people would have long since resolved this minor hiccup.

But, for Dave, this is far more than a hiccup. This is everything he’s known. This is his entire being. Surely, he can’t be...? No. Of course not. He’s straight as the straightest drag racing track there is. He’s straighter than a shot from Cupid’s well-trained and totally not gay arrow. That’s just how it is! That’s how it’s always been! And, besides, Bro would never approve of...

“Dave, the microwave is making weird noises.”

Feet scramble across carpet. With the gracelessness of a stampeding, rabid rhino, Dave yanks his now-burnt and very, very sad-looking microwave meal out. Clearly, these will not be the tastiest enchiladas he’ll ever eat. But, as he reassures himself, they won’t be the worst ones, either. 

* * *

\-- turntechGodhead [TG] began pestering carcinoGeneticist [CG] at 18:02! --

TG: okay so i know i regally fucked up i screwed the pooch so hard it'd be fuckin illegal if it wasn't a turn of already fucked up phrase so call the fuckin idea police on me okay  
TG: i shouldn't have gone to that party obviously and i probably took way too many hits of weed and had a few too any jello shots and beers so hey sue me again that's lawsuit number two let's just keep ourselves a running tally of dave strider's irredeemable fuck ups okay

\-- carcinoGeneticist [CG] is an idle chum! --

TG: okay i see how it is i'll leave you alone

TG: damn okay one hour and still nothing you must be really pissed at me so i guess i might as well take an excavator to the hole i'm unrighteously digging myself into and grovel and beg and plead like some sort of starving peasant on his last day's pay for you to not leave the band because we can't afford to look for another drummer and i know you're reading these messages so just fuckin reply please

CG: No.

TG: okay fuckin fair i guess um

CG: You have two minutes to convince me that you're not a total waste of resources. Starting now.

TG: well fuck i'm all out of ammo here i'm in the middle of the gunfight and i've got zero goddamn bullets left  
TG: i guess i can't really convince you i'm not a huge asshole at this point so i mean if you wanna leave just mosey on away into the sunset but my sister is dragging me to gay club tomorrow afternoon anyhow so you'll still see me whether you want to or not so yippie kai yay motherfucker  
TG: and if you maybe wanna try and talk shit out there then we can rassle on up some subpar cafeteria grub and have a high noon showdown of words but at like six i guess

CG: I'll think about it.

\-- carcinoGeneticist [CG] ceased pestering turntechGodhead [TG] at 19:32! --

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as always, thanks for reading! updates will continue to be weird and sporadic, but they might speed up if i get better ideas or better ideas are suggested!


	15. Hologram

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **[Hologram](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_JwYgd4zHvU)** by NICO Touches the Walls, from _Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood_ (2009)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you don't like swords in people uh don't click the link to the metal gear rising video. the first link in this chapter. yeah. don't click it. and imagine the second link is happening in a college science classroom, and probably with a little more background noise. i also realized i completely forgot how old everyone is supposed to be, so i've done some retconning. keith is now a freshman-aged sophomore, and dave is now being officially declared a sophomore who went to community college first and just showed up on campus like the shining little dumbass he is because john is there so of course he's going to show up. i have no fucking clue what he was supposed to be in the first place.

The deformed wrench-and-gun toting humans on DAVE STRIDER’s laptop screen lunge at him with a vengeance, presumably for some past infraction. He would say he had no clue what that could be, but that would be a lie; he’s been mowing down these guys for the past two hours. Sure, he could be doing much, much more productive things, like studying, but it’s just too damned dreary outside to study. It’s been raining nonstop since 3 AM, and, if that’s not an excuse for skipping out on some studying, Dave isn’t sure what is. In fact, he’s just about to beat the ever-loving shit out of a drug-addled sham of a plastic surgeon when the door to his room swings open.

“I know you’ve been ignoring me. Get up. It’s time for gay club,” Rose explains, her confidence oozing off of her as she walks purposefully into the room.

Dave wants to protest, but he knows it’s useless. He sighs, shuts down his game, and rises to his feet. After grabbing an umbrella, he departs, alongside his sister. “How did you even get into my room?”

“Kanaya showed me how to pick the dorm room locks. Not that hard.” She shrugs. “Anyhow, I’ve gotten word that...”

Dave’s attentions falter. Rose’s voice fades, and his focus turns to a familiar man, wearing a plain grey overcoat, and leaning heavily against the southward facing wall of the campus commons building. His familiar black hair, now thoroughly soaked, clings to his face, and his clothes are sufficiently saturated to be literally dripping wet. Strangely sharp teeth are bared, and, as Dave’s route brings him closer, it becomes obvious that this is, indeed, exactly who he thinks it is.

“Fuck off, Strider,” Karkat snaps. The hand not pressed against the wall of the building is busy trying to get a solid grip on a rain-slicked crutch. “Just keep on going. I don’t know you, and you sure as fuck don’t know me.”

By now, and unbeknownst to Dave, Rose has continued onward. In fact, by now, she’s met up with Kanaya, and the pair are heading into the academic building hosting the meeting.

Not that this matters, since the narrative focus is on two dysfunctional young men, to whom the story now returns.

“I mean... you look like you need some help,” Dave mutters, burying his hands in his pockets.

“Not from you.” With this, Karkat shoves himself away from the wall, leveraging himself against a firmly planted crutch. He begins to limp forward, shoving Dave out of the way with his free hand. “You’re the fucking last person I’d pick to save me from an inferno-engulfed high rise, and much fucking less a minor inconvenience.”

“Oh. Okay.”

Karkat offers no response.

Dave, meanwhile, begins toward the building. Shortly after restarting his journey, though, he realizes that he outpaces Karkat. He slows to a leisurely walk, falling in step with his unwitting conversational partner, and speaks up again, “Look, I’m real sorry about the shit that happened Sunday, okay? I sure as hell didn’t mean to go riding off into the weed-shaped sunset. I also didn’t mean to punch Sollux in the face, and I actually don’t remember that part, so...” his voice trails off.

Karkat falters. Again, he bares his teeth. His shoulders rise, and his back arches. “FUCK!” He remains like this for several seconds before his posture loosens once more. His breathing is ragged, yet he continues moving forward.

“You’re sure you don’t need help?”

“Persistent, like some sort of unwelcome foot fungus,” Karkat jeers. “I don’t want your help, but, if you insist, you can take my bag.”

Dave nods. Considering Karkat’s obvious wealth, his bag is surprisingly flimsy. It’s little more than a step above a trash bag, more akin to a gym sack than a proper book bag. It’s surprisingly light, and the thin fabric hints at its sparse contents. From what Dave can tell, there’s little more than a few notebooks and some writing utensils inside. And, being who he is, Dave tries to make light of the situation, “What, you ain’t going to carry these fuckin’ heavy weights around any more?”

Karkat rolls his eyes, but offers no verbal reply.

Dave can feel heat rising to his cheeks. “I’m sorry. I just... uh...”

“We won’t make club on time,” Karkat grumbles, glancing briefly at his watch. “Shit.”

“Well, I could carry you,” Dave, once again, makes a stupefied attempt at a joke.

“I’d rather drop dead where I stand, thanks.”

 

For a moment, KARKAT VANTAS feels pride. He sees the look of dejection and unease on Dave’s face, and his heart races. A smug smile spreads across his face.

Then...

Nothing. A part of him realizes he’s gaining nothing by holding his physical health over Dave like the most insincere peace offering since the Trojan Horse. What’s the point? He’s making Dave miserable, and, as much as he can’t stand the bastard, he finds that the pride is swiftly replaced by disgust. Is he really no better than a schoolyard bully?

A loud, dramatic sigh escapes him. He locks his eyes on the path ahead, partially out of necessity and partially out of a desire to refuse eye contact to Dave. “Look, Strider, I’m not going to lie and say you’re a wonderful person. You’re a pain in the ass on par with a chemical burn, but I guess you’re somehow trying your best. You’re just a clueless fuck.”

“I... guess?” The confusion in Dave’s voice is almost humorous. And, were it not for the somewhat serious nature of this particular scene and his own sense of social awareness, Karkat would have laughed.

“Yeah, you are. So, I’ll give you one last shot. You fuck up this time, I’m out of your stupid little band. Which means that you’d better not fuck up, right?”

“Right?” That same odd tone of confusion returns.

And, this time, Karkat allows himself this luxury of a slight smile. He hides it quickly, though, before continuing. “So, let’s call this a truce. I’ll be nothing but perfectly civil to you, and you never hit on me again, understood?”

“Yeah. Sure.”

A nod serves to seal the deal. “Amazing. Fucking spectacular.” Now, Karkat stops. As he passes under the overhand before the front of the building, he takes his bag from Dave. From its depths, he removes a grey hand towel, which he uses to wipe his face dry. “You want it?” he then asks, roughly shoving it in Dave’s direction.

“Thanks but no thanks,” Dave counters, gingerly shoving it away.

“Fair enough.” The towel is balled up and shoved back into the bag, and the pair proceed inside.

 

The room is nearly full. All but three seats, in the very back of the space, are taken. By now, the discussion has moved on, but the entrance of two faces, both of them fairly familiar to a particular  **KEITH KOGANE** , interrupts this new line of discussion.

The leader of the group, a perky and outgoing Roxy Lalonde, offers the newcomers a wide smile. She waits until both are settled before engaging them, “Oh! You're a little late, but that's okay! You just missed our introductions! So, tell us your name, your preferred pronouns, your year, and, if you're comfortable, why you're here. I'll reintroduce myself. I'm Roxy Lalonde, she/her, junior, and I'm here because, well, I'm the president! I kind of have to be here.”

The first of the men to speak is Karkat, who Keith recognizes from Pensive Emoji. His voice is as gruff as he'd imagined it would be. In fact, if the author were to give her two cents, as she most certainly fucking will, it sounds a lot like a [particular white-haired cyborg ninja's killer persona](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DOF-0iEgbto) (and not the one talking about memes). “Okay. Uh... My name is Karkat Shaan Vantas. I'm a freshman, and I'm here because this is the club for me, I guess?”

This elicits a nod of approval from Roxy. She turns her attentions to the other man.

Again, Keith recognizes him. This is, without a doubt, Dave Strider, of Pensive Emoji. And, when he speaks, Keith can't help but be somewhat starstruck. “Wassup,” the man says, offering a casual two-finger salute, “Name's Dave Strider, so check that off the icebreaker list. He/him. I'm a sophomore. Not too sure why I'm here. Mainly ‘cause my sister's dragged me along. So, hey, hi, Rose.”

Across the room, there's a poorly muffled sigh. Rose Lalonde buries her face in her hands.

And, as Roxy continues speaking, Lance is interrupted by a nudge from his boyfriend. “Now's your chance, dude. Go fanboy all over him,” Lance snickers.

Keith rolls his eyes, but he still digs a notebook out of his bag. While he, unlike Lance, (as was so painfully evident when they managed to meet  _his_ idol, stuntman David Pliskin, by pure happenstance) can hold his own in a discussion with someone he admires, he's not entirely immune to the mere knowledge that he's speaking to someone he's admired from afar for about two years. He takes a breath to completely calm his nerves.

The second he approaches, the blond offers him a small smirk. “Hey, you here for an autograph or somethin’?”

“Yeah, kind of.”

“For fuck's sake, don't inflate his ego any more than it already is,” Karkat snaps.

Ignoring this commentary, Keith hands over his notebook. “My name's Keith.”

“Cool, cool.” Dave signs the page with flourishing gusto, then hands it back.

“to keith,  
well here you go  
Dave Strider”

This is exactly the sort of note he'd expect from the band leader, and he's more than happy to get it. In fact, while he's at it, he hands the book to Karkat.

To Keith's surprise, the other man doesn't seem as eager to offer up his autograph. Or, rather, he seems confused. “What?” he scoffs, “You really want _my_ fucking signature?”

By now, Roxy has decided to allow the gathering a ten minute “chat break”, citing the fact that the introductory meeting is a bit long. Chatter is filling the room, and Keith allows himself to begin speaking at a regular volume. “I mean, yeah. I've already gotten everyone else's signatures at previous events, but I don't have yours. You're the new drummer, so I'd like a signature from you.”

Karkat nods. He takes the book, signs nothing more than his name, and slides it back across the table in front of him. “Well, I guess you've got it, now, huh? Go McFuckin’ lose it.”

Keith, though somewhat put out by the lackluster response from the new drummer, offers a small appreciative bow. Then, he returns to his seat, whereupon he immediately shows his new spoils off to Lance. “I got both signatures. So that makes, what?” he offers a few moments of faux thought before continuing, now sporting a slight smirk, “Two. I got two signatures without fainting, so that's _double_ your total, pal.”

“In my defense, when we met Pliskin, it was really damn hot outside, okay?” Lance retorts weakly, though the small smile on his face betrays his lack of concern. Though he puts up a good act of annoyance, Keith can tell he's grown fond of their now-friendly-but-formerly-adversarial-ribbings. “Besides, the short one just signed his name. What a prick.”

“I think he's new to being in a band. He was pretty fucking surprised when I asked him for a signature.” Keith shrugs. He prepares to say more, only to be silenced by Roxy reconvening the formal meeting.

  


\-- turntechGodhead [TG] began pestering ectoBiologist [EB] at 18:53! --

TG: oh my god john help me i'm dying

EB: ha ha. what is it this time? did you light the pop corn in your microwave on fire again?

TG: okay smartass that was once and i was thirteen and everyone is a little piece of shit that the cat dragged across the carpet as it still hung from its butt when they're thirteen  
TG: secondly no it's this fuckin meeting egbert it's awful

EB: i thought you'd fit right in.

TG: oh god no i ain't gay we both know that

EB: uh huh.

TG: they've been going on and on about identities for what feels like twenty hours i mean i respect and love all humans who happen to enter my personal bubble  
TG: but this is just too much  
TG: i thought i'd be here for like thirty minutes and it turns out rose has dragged me kicking and screaming all the way to the eulogy for an amway member who requested both the longest eulogy fuckin possible and that every person be subjected to a whole presentation about amway

EB: okay. well, i'd love to help, since you're my best bro and all that but i've got stuff to do. i'm also in robotics club right now, so there's that.  
EB: there's this girl here named pidge and she's been absolutely dominating the discussion right now it's really cool. she's even set up a roomba fighting ring.

TG: a fuckin what whomst'd've'n't'ain't

EB: a roomba fighting ring! it's...  
EB: oh fuck i'll just send you a video.

\-- ectoBiologist [EB] sent a [video](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9vgU9K6kKbU)! --

TG: holy fuckin niblets

EB: yeah it's super cool!  
EB: oh shit it's getting intense! i'm gonna go watch, now. good luck with your meeting.

\-- ectoBiologist [EB] ceased pestering turntechGodhead [TG] at 19:08! --

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading! comments and feedback... blah blah. blah blah blah. blah. UwU and yes i used jack the ripper from metal gear as karkat's headcanon voice. sue me.


	16. The Fragrance of Dark Coffee

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [ **yes, it's from phoenix wright...** ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HMnrl0tmd3k)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> pretend these are actual personal videos, and not funny random youtube videos. also this is a lot of voltron happenings and pesterlog.

As the first break of the school year looks ever larger, and ever closer, DAVE STRIDER finds himself embroiled ass-deep in a moral dillema.

Obviously, he was expected to go home. Everyone else was. Hell, John was flying all the way across the country for this little five day academic recess. Unfortunately for Dave, he doesn't  _want_ to go home. His older brother, who just so happens to be his guardian, is, above all, a massive asshole. So...

\-- carcinoGeneticist [CG] wants to video chat! --

Dave stares, his jaw slack, at the uncanny coincidence. Nevertheless, he accepts the invitation.

His screen, formerly occupied by a half-finished essay on the fantastic benefits of lab safety measures, such as not drinking bleach, is now filled with the image of Karkat Vantas.

The other man is sitting in a desk chair so visibly comfortable it cannot possibly be school-issued. The backrest is high enough to be seen on camera, above his shoulders, making him look a lot like a super villain. (This is on two counts: the first is that it looks vaguely like a vampire cape, and the second is the obvious analogy between this seat and the high-backed executive chairs, which seem to be standard fare for supervillany.) The poor lighting lends itself to the grainy image of a shitty laptop webcam, but Dave isn't complaining about that. He's not the sort to pine for ultra high-definition quality video of a man he  _most definitely_ doesn't have a crush on.

“What's up?” Dave says, his voice a bit too loud to be conspicuous.

“Rose told me that you're not going home for fall break, and, while I don't exactly give a fuck about whether or not you're slapped with a $300 fine for staying on campus when the school is closed, she paid me $50 to take you home with me.” Karkat frowns. He rubs the back of his neck and turns his face to the side, so that he's not looking directly at the camera.

Dave doesn't mind. He'll continue whether or not there's any indication of interest in what he has to say. “Damn, she must have a bet or something. She and Kanaya have been muttering about hooking us up.”

“I've fucking noticed, Strider. I'm sure the whole goddamned world has noticed. You'd have to pluck out your eyes, à la Oedipus, to  _not_ fucking notice.”

“Oedipus? The mother fucker?”

Karkat offers a prolonged sigh. “Yes.”

“Okay, well, thanks for the offer. I—” Dave fully intends to continue, only to receive a text message. He holds up a finger, to notify Karkat that he's a bit tied up, and checks the notification. The second he does so, his heart sinks. The contact name across the top is enough to make his stomach churn.

Hey kid. Lil’ dude. The puppet porn is dead. I've been fired. So, if you come home, you'll be sleeping on the curb, because I ain't got cash for myself, much less you. Peace.

“Fuck,” utters Dave, locking his phone. “Fine, I'll come with you.”

* * *

\-- installWizard [IW] opened a memo on board KEITH IS ACTUALLY A CENTAUR HIS MOM IS A HORSE --  
\-- installWizard [IW] responded to memo at 11:21! --

IW: lol first.

\-- mulletLover [ML] responded to memo at 11:21! --

ML: Hey, what the actual fuck?

\-- loverBoy [LB] responded to memo at 11:22! --

LB: i'd believe that krolia is a centaur remember that one time she kicked down a door because we were playing silent hill and you were screaming and she thought i was beating you up

ML: No, i definitely do not remember that, lance.

LB: aw come on  
LB: you were screaming because you hated the pyramid head things and there were some gunshot noises and your mom was like  
LB: oh my god my baby what the fuck are you doing to my son

ML: Shut up, lance, i'm begging.

LB: and then i had to explain to her that it was a game i stole from luis that luis had stolen from marco that marco had actually bought from his friend david oh because my mama wouldn't let us play those scary games because she thought it would give us nightmares  
LB: oh sorry i'd already typed it all out so i figured it'd be rude not to send

\-- bakingBro [BB] responded to memo at 11:25! --

BB: oh! wow! you've never told us about your mom before, keith.  
BB: i mean i've seen pictures of her, so i kinda figured what she'd be like and, haha, she's exactly what i thought she'd be like!  
BB: she sounds super cool. we should meet her some time.

ML: Too fucking bad. She's in germany on a business trip for the marmora company right now, so that's a big fucking no.

BB: :(

IW: dammit keith! you made hunk sad.

ML: ...Sorry?

BB: oh it's fine, dude.

\-- ectoBiologist [EB] responded to memo at 11:32! --

EB: hi? pidge invited me here? she said if i wanted more sick roomba fighting action i should ask some guy named hunk?

BB: oh! you're john, right? pidge told me about you. i had too much work to do yesterday, so i didn't go to robotics. but. uh... let me find some of the good shit.

ML: Pidge, you can't just invite random people into the private group chat!

IW: but this one isn't the private group chat, so checkmate, motherfucker. uwu

\-- bakingBro [BB] sent a [video](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=T8OKrulY2ws)! --  
\-- palaDad [PD] responded to memo at 11:39! --

PD: Just what sort of antics are going on in here!? >:0

IW: lol. professor shirogane uses emojis like the nerd he is.

PD: Watch it, Pidge, I can always flunk you.

PD: okay i'll shut up now.

EB: wait! is that actually professor shirogane?

PD: Oh shit.

\-- palaDad [PD] left the memo! --  
\-- bakingBro [BB] sent a [video](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=73spaR27xAY)! --

ML: I have no idea what the fuck is supposed to be happening here at this point. Why am i still here?

LB: actually i agree with keith for once

ML: Wow. You're the absolute most supportive boyfriend ever, lance.

ML: oh i know ;)

BB: psst. i think he was being facetious.

ML: oh  
ML: i know ;)

EB: no one has said if that was actually professor shirogane yet...

LB: nope

BB: totally not.

ML: ... Maybe?

IW: oh lol. totally. keith is pals with him.

ML: PIDGE!!!

IW: i'm just telling the truth. you're pals.

ML: Yeah, well that's why i don't take classes with him! You're not supposed to, either!

IW: well i didn't ask for him. i just got assigned him. i was supposed to be assigned professor clark. y'know. the pretty one.

BB: i mean... to be fair shiro is kinda pretty.

LB: keith and i second that motion

ML: Remind me why i date you, lance?

LB: because i'm damned amazing

ML: ...

\-- mulletLover [ML] has left the memo! --

LB: well i think that's my cue

\-- loverBoy [LB] has left the memo! --

IW: okay then i'll close the memo. john, if you want more fighting robots, drop by my room with hunk and we'll show you some stuff.

EB: awesome! i'll bring dirk, too. he likes those battle bots.

BB: i'd hope so since he runs the robotics club.

\-- installWizard [IW] closed the memo! --

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for still reading! as always, i love comments and feedback. if you have any ideas, also drop me those! please....
> 
> A quick retcon from something I do later in the story: Krolia is Keith’s Mom by adoption in this fic, which makes her Shiro’s Mom. I didn’t think that one through. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯


	17. Light of Apollo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Song is by Michael Guy Bowman, Of Homestuck fame. I’m too lazy to link right now.

For DAVE STRIDER, this particular Friday of a perpetually unknown school year begins with the screeching of car tires and the sting of hot coffee spilling onto his exposed hand. It begins with a string of unrestrained curses and the frustration of a ruined outfit. (And he actually really liked this outfit, too. It was one of his nicer shirts, and it sported his band’s logo, but the massive coffee stain has ruined it.) By no later than noon, he realizes that today is not his day.

And it’s not just the fact that he was almost hit by a car while walking to class. There’s also the fact that he knows few people on campus, and every single one of them is busy. Rose and Kanaya have gone on an impromptu weekend getaway to goddamned Niagra Falls. John is out of town to visit his family. Hell, even Jade is too busy to chat. So, with few options left, he finds himself laying in the grass, which is still damp from recent rains, and plucking at his guitar. (Which he can play in addition to his keytar, but, of course, not necessarily at the same time. That would be silly.)

The clouds overhead drift by with a carefree lack of rapidity, and the air is surprisingly warm.

The sounds he forms with his instrument are nothing short of random. It’s neither a coherent song, nor a completely disharmonious clusterfuck. Nonetheless, it’s not a symphony. He merely practices chords and plays with their progression, sliding his fingers smoothly across the biting steel strings.

Notes ring and fade and echo and warble. There’s no point to any of this. There’s no point to practicing. All gigs have been put on hold for the impending fall break, so it’s not as if he really needs to get into the performing mood.

But, for Dave, there’s something thrilling about being onstage. It’s a palpable rush, a steady beating of his heart, which surges in proportion to the crowd’s adoration. He feeds off the energy of a crowd. His passion is fueled by the thrumming of a gathering’s cheers in his ears; it’s a rush of pleasure, which begins in with the noise and builds, until it overpowered him. When the crowd hits its peak, Dave Strider, as he knows, ceases to exist. He becomes something more, someone more. And, as he plays, he gets a taste of that rush.

Then, it stops. The sun is obscured, and a quick glance up quickly reveals the identity of the individual. “You’re the chick John’s been talking about, huh? Pidge?”

“Yup.” The woman nods. She tugs at her bag’s strap. “I just came by to tell you John told me he heard of a solo gig. I’m guessing for your music shit. He’ll send you details later.”

“Cool. Thanks, I guess.” Dave shrugs. He returns to his guitar practice.

And Pidge, having completed her mission, departs.

Thus, for several minutes, Dave is once again free to return to his fantasy. He dreams up a world of glamor and prestige, a reality where he’s the boss of his own destiny. He thinks of the possibilities. He considers the opportunities. Then...

“The buskers down the street called and said for you to fuck off. This is their turf.” Once again, someone blocks the sun. And, again, Dave identifies him immediately.

“Tell them I don’t give a fuck. This is college turf, they ain’t got a single fuckin’ say about this area.”

Karkat bristles at this commentary. There’s a spark of intense rage in his eyes, and a dry, biting venom to his voice as he quips back, “Okay, well, I have a say here, and you look like a douchebag. Wow! Look at Dave Strider and his super cool guitar.”

Dave shrugs. “It ain’t even that great of a guitar, pal. This was only a few hundred.”

“That’s not the... Fucking never mind, you infantile piece of dried shit. I don’t have time for this.”

“So why’re you still talkin’?” Despite his best efforts, a smirk slips onto Dave’s face.

“Truly, you’re insufferable.” There’s a lull in conversation. After a few moments, Karkat clears his throat. “I came to let you know that, if you’re coming home with me, you’ll have to follow some basic rules.”

“That’s a function I can sometimes perform.”

A blank stare. A moment of recovery. Then, Karkat continues, “First of all, we eat spicy food. You’re going to act like you love my mom’s food, or I _will_ destroy you. You will swallow the tears the minute you taste our curry, and you will pretend, with every fiber of your pathetic, vapid being, that your pasty white ass can handle it. You want to eat something that isn’t spicy, you’ll do it in secret. Got it?”

“Sure.” Dave refrains from telling Karkat that, due to his brother’s recurring so-called ‘prank’ of hiding some of the hottest peppers known to mankind in his food, he’s developed taste for spice. Not that he seeks it out, necessarily, but he can’t handle more than most give him credit for.

“Second,” Karkat says, shifting his weight between his crutches, “You’ll put up with my father’s asinine ramblings about Indian pop culture. Madhuri Dixit is the most beautiful woman alive, secondary, of course, to my mother. Shah Rukh Khan is the most talented man you’ve ever dared to lay your fucking stupid eyeballs upon. Boney Kapoor and Sridevi? A duo so fucking iconic even Sunny and Cher could get fucked by their immense beauty. He asks you to dance with him to some off-the-wall Bollywood song, _you will fucking dance_. Got it?”

Dave nods. It’s a slow, deliberate motion, and it clashes wildly with the his furrowed brows and confused tone. “Yeah? Jesus fuckin’ Christ, dude, I could have just Googled it.”

“Yeah? Well, aren’t you fucking blessed to have gotten this insider info dispensed to you on an express shipment from the equine monster’s mouth?” With this said, Karkat tugs at the sleeves of his coat. He repositions himself again, and begins to depart. “By the way, if anyone asks, I had no clue where you went for break. Or, I guess, I don’t know where you’ll be going.”

* * *

Far, far away, in a hotel room in the distant land of fucking Canada, ROSE LALONDE lounges carelessly at the foot of a plush queen-sized bed. As it turns out, dating the heir of the globally successful Maryam Luxury clothing line has its perks. Right now, she’s sipping a nonalcoholic margarita and flipping through the available on-demand movies.

So far, she’s yet to see anything interest. However, when something _does_ pop up, she calls it out, “How does _Alvin and the Chipmunks_ sound?”

To Rose’s bemusement, Kanaya replies with a thoughtful hum. “The original cartoons?”

“No, the new CGI movie.”

A look of disgust quickly works its way onto Kanaya’s face. She wrinkles her nose and shakes her head. “Oh, heavens, no! Choose something else! I said campy, not horrible.”

“ _Rocky Horror_?”

“Too obvious.”

“ _Shape of Water_!”

Kanaya suddenly stops leading through her fashion magazine. A soft gasp escapes her. “Now, Rose, we both know that’s art.”

“Point taken, my dearest, and I retract my statement with the utmost shame.” Despite the sincerity in her voice, Rose is smiling. “ _Hairspray_?”

“Hm. A musical does sound nice...”

“ _Grease_?”

“Oh, now that is definitely the sort of crap I want to indulge in right now.” Kanaya grins. Setting aside her reading material, she repositions herself on bed, so that she’s snuggled up against Rose. “Commence the entertainment!”

“Well, if it’s too rainy to see Niagra Falls, you might as well watch outdated movies whilst lounging in the luxurious accommodations of a pent house suite, right?” Rose, too, smiles. She presses play, and uses the remote to dim the lights in the room.

* * *

Back in reality, which is to say, not Canada, three friends are gathered around an old CRT television and a PlayStation, complete with a copy of _Crash Bandicoot_. At the controls is a floundering LANCE SANCHEZ, and, in the colloquial peanut gallery, are his friends, Pidge and Keith.

Pidge works as the antagonist. “You night have dominated _Halo_ , but you sure do suck at this game, nerd!” She laughs.

Keith, meanwhile, seems to be struggling to albalance honesty with support. “After two hours on the same level, you’ve probably memorized all the pitfalls, right?”

On cue, Lance’s character drops into the bottomless realm below the screen. The young man lets forth a loud groan before falling backward, onto the floor. “This game is just too damn hard. And, Keith, you’re not helping. Nice try, dude.”

“Damn. Just give me the controller.” Pidge sticks her root beer flavored lollipop into her mouth before snatching p the faded grey controller. She reboots the level, and completes it flawlessly on the first try, collecting all the required points to grant Lance the only perfect score he’s managed to get thus far. “See? Easy as shit.”

“Yeah, well this shit isn’t easy! And that’s cheating! It’s your game!”

A sly smirk crosses the young woman’s face. “Yeah? And _Halo_ was your game. So, that means we’re all fair and square and even. Keith kicked our asses at GameCube’s low-res version of _Need for Speed_ —”

“Don’t you dare talk shit about my GameCube,” interjects Keith.

Pidge continues, undeterred, “You won at  _Halo_ , and I won at _Crash Bandicoot_. Everyone is happy.”

“Well, who won playing _Cooking Mama_?”

A vibrant pink spreads across fair, freckled cheeks. “Fuck off, Keith, Hunk isn’t here. His suspicious retro game choices aren’t being counted. But, for the record, we both tied.”

Lance snickers. “So, was Hunk that bad, or were you that good?”

Keith joins in a round of low chuckles.

Pidge, meanwhile, rolls her eyes. Though her reply is harsh in tone, a smile graces her features, too, “Again, irrelevant. Obviously, we’ll have to redo retro gaming night again.”

“Yeah, and we should probably pick something we didn’t waste our antisocial shut-in childhoods playing,” Keith says.

Pidge nods. “Exactly, but, for now, I stole some of the cooking club’s gourmet ham biscuits. Who wants—?”

The statement needn’t be finished. The group is on top of the meaty hors d’ouvres immediately.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, comments and feedback are welcome! Let me know if you see typos or autocorrect Fuck ups.


	18. Revolution 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s a Beatles song. Note from 12:30 AM me: Add the link and info.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This entire chapter is pretty much just shout-outs to stuff I like lol why make new names when you can borrow some?

The last hurrah before the fall break is a big one. Alpha Sigma Sigma has pulled every string and bribed every campus official. The college standard supply of “leafy greens” and booze is flowing, the music is pounding, and the DJ, a man with spiky black hair, going by the stage name of Greed, is vibing with the crowd like fuck knows what.

It’s loud. It’s wild. It’s obnoxious. It’s stupid.

“EDWARD ON THE MIC, Y’ALL!” The DJ calls. A man, who KARKAT VANTAS recognizes as the golden-haired, Class A misdemeanor level asshole from his computer science class, rambles about... something. 

In the corner of the living room, sprawled out atop the plush, outdated sofa, Adamska, a silver-tongued enigma from chemistry, is impressing the crowd with his likely-to-be-absolute-bullshit weed smoking tips. Similarly, his lab partner, a raven-haired loner, his-first-name-escaped-Karkat-but-is-likely-Corvo, both sulks and hogs the communal weed bowl.

Dave is nowhere to be seen. Hell, Karkat lost track of him the minute he set foot in the frat house. Of course, he’ll show back up for the scheduled preview of Pensive Emoji, but, until then, Karkat is alone.

He wanders around, sipping from his own personal flask of not-Pabst-Blue-Ribbon and avoiding conversation like the plague. Nevertheless, he listens. He picks the perfect spot—an out of place old chair, seemingly antique, and made of wood, which sits in the corridor between the living room and the kitchen.

 _Yes_ , he thinks to himself, _This will do perfectly_. And, so, he listens. He gathers data on the school, saving it to use later, if needed.

“— Oh, yeah, Falman? You want the best weed, go to — ”

“— I heard that the twins are back at their pranks. They dumped a whole bucket of Nickelodeon brand slime on Professor — ”

“ — DeWitt is a hard grader, but he’s the best military history teacher. He really knows his stuff. If you have a chance — ”

“ — There’s a Danny DeVito fan club starting up next semester. Maybe we should — ”

“ — What the fuck is a Frasier Crane? You mean that annoying as hell — ?”

“ — Nikiforov? Yeah, he’s on the basketball team. Sometimes he’ll hand out free Russian candies. You don’t think he’s a spy for — ?”

Words pass by. Snippets of conversation, like flowing water, flow ever onward. Sometimes, they’re useful. Sometimes, they’re not.

“ — Who the fuck would call something Hot Coldman?”

Karkat is used to this. When he’s not standing out, he’s blending in. As strange as it seems, in a situation this crowded, no one really notices him. From time to time, they’ll bump him and apologize, but that’s the extent of his required social interaction with most of the people here. Otherwise, he’s a passive observer. The words that people say, especially when they think no one is really listening, tell stories. Snapshots. Portraits of people, of their lives, are painted with strokes made of nothing but shitty small talk.

“ — Dawson’s having a yacht party over break. He’s invited — ”

“ — Les Amis is just a stupid politicial chat group on campus. It’s a dick measuring contest. Don’t join unless you’re talking to Grantaire. He’s got good booze, but that’s about it. You can always just ask — ”

“ — The Paradise? It’s a new club that just opened on Railroad Avenue. At the intersection with Swan Drive. Can’t miss it. The neon sign is huge. Fuckin’ gigantic, man.”

“I’m not here, and you never saw me,” a familiar voice says from nearby, “But I figured you could use a drink. Don’t worry. It’s just soda.”

Karkat pauses. He looks up, and finds himself staring at... “Professor Shirogane? Pardon my language, but what the fuck?”

“I’m only a few years older than you all. I sneak into parties all the time and no one notices...” here, he pauses. He toys with a tuft of hair, near the center of his hairline, that has begun showing a bit of white. “I probably should’ve done a better dye job. Anyhow, you want this soda or not?”

“Sure?” Karkat takes the cup with hesitant gratitude, chugs the contents, and then sets it aside. While he makes a mental note to remember it later, he also knows he probably won’t. “Thanks. So... you just go around and sneak into student parties?”

“Like I said,” warns Shiro, “You never saw me. But, sure. The good ones are always fun. I’ll show up, listen to chatter, and leave. Sometimes, I’ll find a student I know won’t rat me out.”

“And how do you know I won’t rat you—?”

Shiro responds by offering Karkat a pointed glare—the sort of glare that says “I can destroy your grades, and I also think you’re a cool guy who wouldn’t do that, so I’d be very disappointed-in-a-fatherly-way if you did”.

Karkat opens his mouth to answer, only to find himself distracted by the sight of a young man, dressed in what appears to be nothing but a Pikachu onesie, doing the worm across the dance area. His jaw remains dropped, as does his grasp on reality.

Shiro, too, finds himself at a loss for words, though he manages a chuckle and some brief commentary, “Ah. The joys of Skaia College life.”

 

By the time he’s clambered to the front of the room to give his speech about Pensive Emoji, a certain Dave Strider is very, very drunk. In fact, considering the fact he’s nineteen, he’s illegally intoxicated, both literally and in the sense that it should be illegal for him to be this disconnected from reality. That neither stops nor sims his enthusiasm for the one-way train to artificially induced good feelings he’s riding right now.

“So, what’s your name?” Asks Greed, the odd, raven-haired DJ.

“Dave,” hiccups the blond.

“Great. You’re booked for this time slot, so blah all you want, kid,” the man shrugs. He hands over the microphone. 

And Dave, in return, begins rambling. “Yo, what’s up Skaia? I’m here to tell y’all ‘bout Pensive Emoji, a...” he reaches into his pocket, and draws forth a bundle of notecards. The past, sober version of himself had helpfully remembered to stash them away, just in case his future—and, now, current—intoxicated version of himself should wind up in this very situation. “We’re a campus-based vaporwave rock group.” He hiccups again. “Fuck, I’m too drunk for the rest of this shit. I just wanted to give a shoutout to that dude over there!”

Dave’s outstretched finger is pointed directly at Karkat, who, unbeknownst to the indicator, is both bewildered and flustered.

“You’re a real fuckin’ pal. So, hey, give it up for that fucker! Whoo! Pretty face, but zero personality.” Having said everything he could think to say, Dave staffers offstage. In his haze, he meanders aimlessly, stopping only to grab another shitty Pabst and once he reaches a now-fuming Karkat Vantas. He sways on his feet before inquiring about his prior commentary, “How’d I do?”

“FUCKING TERRIBLE!” Karkat thunders.

Dave shrugs.

“What the fuck was that shout out at the end? Why do you have to bring me into your drunken rants?”

By now, Dave finally realizes that Karkat is unhappy with him. What he doesn’t understand is _why_. “I said you had a nice face, so that’s a good thing, right?”

“Look, we’re not dating. You said so yourself. You’re allegedly not gay, so you should have a thing to do with me! Hell, we’re barely even at a level above mild, begrudging acquaintances.” The fury in Karkat’s words is bleeding into his movements, now. He gestures wildly and widely, fully utilizing the space around himself as a blank canvas, on which he vivaciously displays his displeasure. “You dumped me in the middle of this stupid fucking drug-infested party, so I’ve just been minding my own goddamned business. And, apparently, the most you’ve done in the meantime is get drunk by yourself. Well, two can play at that game!” Karkat punctuates his tirade with a huff. He rises to his feet, and swiftly departs from the venue.

Dave, meanwhile, is left to ponder what he’s done wrong. Or, rather, he shrugs the interaction off. In the pit of his stomach, buried beneath umpteen servings of shitty microwave nachos and a dangerous quantity of Pabst Blue Riboon, (not that any quantity of such horrid gasoline-flavored beverage is good) is a nagging sense of disappointment.

Because, for all he hates to admit it, Dave a Strider has started to take a liking to his loud, bombastic bandmate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thanks for reading! Comments and feedback are welcome and appreciated!


	19. M K Ultra

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Song is by Muse. Future me: I’m fucking begging you to link the song this time.  
> FROM CURRENT ME: no  
> FROM CURRENT CURRENT ME: fuck you past me but still no

Karkat’s car is surprisingly large. In fact, it’s a literal SUV. DAVE STRIDER would say that it’s a Subaru Tribeca. (Not that, for all he fakes understanding vehicles, he actually _knows_. Rather, he read the labels on the back.) It’s a 2009 model. The interior is faded, though the body remains as good as new. It lacks any semblance of luxury, outside of the leather seating, and even that is faded as hell.

The air between the two men is tense and heavy. Yesterday's disastrous party weighs heavily on both, even as Karkat loads the car.

Nonetheless, Dave tries to make small talk. “So, uh... your family...”

“They exist, sure,” Karkat grumbles. With various boxes and bags under his free arm, he hobbles to the car. Sweat beads at his brow, yet the air is cool, verging in cold.

“I... uh...” Dave stammers. “Do you want help?”

“No, I’d rather you not lay your stupid hands on my stuff.” He places down the boxes and turns around, bouncing his weight between his crutch and the car. “Just stay out of my fucking way, like a good little boy, and we’ll be perfectly fine.”

Dave sighs. Honestly, he doesn’t remember last night. He understands he made a mistake and, aside from his own mortification, he feels a sense of remorse. “Look, I’ve said I’m sorry.”

“I’m not interested, Strider.” By now, Karkat is bringing out a rolling suitcase. This goes quicker than the boxes. He loads it into the car, shuts the door, and turns to Dave. “Get in. We’re leaving.”

“I was going to—” Dave begins to protest. Perhaps he can reason his way out of this; he can stay with Rose for break.

“Get in the fucking car, dumbass,” Karkat says, raising his voice. He limps forward, pulls himself into the driver’s seat, and pulls what appears to be a glorified walking stick from behind his seat.

“I...” Dave stammers. “What’s that?”

“It’s for the brakes and gas, stupid. _Get in._ We’re going to be late.“

By now, and despite the fact that Karkat’s bark has and always will be worse than his bite, Dave complies. He scrambles into his seat and buckles up. “So...”

“Don’t talk to me.” As if to make this task impossible, Karkat proceeds to turn on loud rock music. 

* * *

\-- mulletLover [ML] opened a memo on board FALL BREAK PLANS --  
\-- mulletLover [ML] responded to memo at 11:30! --

ML: Hey! So, what are all of you losers doing for break? I'm going home, and my stupid boyfriend has convinced me to let him into my house. Help me.

\-- bakingBro [BB] responded to memo at 11:30! --

BB: i'm going home with pidge but uh i can't find her?

\-- installWizard [IW] responded to memo at 11:30! --

IW: hunk, i just told you that i was going to the dining hall before we leave. did you not listen again?  
IW: okay, well, that's where i was. i'm heading back now.

\-- loverBoy [LB] responded to memo at 11:32! --

LB: hey so does anyone know how to replace a flat tire  
LB: my beloved boyfriend hit a glass bottle and we got a nice big flat tire

BB: i love fat tire!

IW: ha ha.

ML: Oh my fucking god. Does anyone know how to fix a flat tire, just answer!

BB: can i send a link?

LB: oh yeah we could've just googled

ML: We don't have the car jack, stupid.

LB: oh i might be stupid but i'm your stupid sweet thing

IW: well...  
IW: this is way too much for me. i'm almost back, hunk, open the door. i've already almost dropped your taco.

\-- bakingBro [BB] has left the memo! --  
\-- installWizard [IW] has left the memo! --

LB: hey there sweet cheeks ;)

ML: You're standing RIGHT NEXT TO ME, lance.

\-- mulletLover [ML] closed the memo! --

* * *

DAVE STRIDER wakes to a shove and a harsh voice. His head bounces off of the seatbelt. “We're here, dumbass.”

He stirs. He looks out, through the windshield, and towards a modest estate. A two-story home, with an accompanying cottage. An elevator has been built onto the side, or, rather, that's what Dave assumes the brick-wrapped column flanking either side of the home is. A folding metal ramp, which seems to be mounted onto a hinge, has been lowered, so that it covers the three steps to the wrap-around porch, and the glass-paneled front door is open.

By the time Dave has managed to get his things together, Karkat has loaded his own luggage onto a rolling cart. He waits, arms draped over his crutch, at the front door.

Inside, obediently stationed behind the threshold, a single black cat is waiting. A note is taped to the door and, as Dave and Karkat draw closer, its contents become visible: “Sorry we missed you! We'll be home soon! Called in for hospital emergency!”

“Hospital?” Dave questions, once again trying to strike up some discussion. “Your parents are doctors?”

“Didn't tell you because you didn't need to know. Isn't that a fucking novel idea?” Karkat mutters.

The inside of the house is exactly what Dave expected. It's sparse, but cozy. With the flip of a switch, Karkat starts the fireplace, which is nestled on the far northeastern wall. Shining, lightly colored hardwood floors reflect the abstract, geometric chandeliers, which hang from solid wooden beams running across the high ceiling. An elevator is shoehorned into the both of the northernmost corners of the home, and it, like the, curved staircase, leads to an overhanging balcony. Doors, presumably to bedrooms, and a second, straight staircase are visible on this second story.

“Just put your stuff down somewhere where it won't bother anyone, and don't fuck anything up,” Karkat grumbles. He, too, follows the same command. He parks the rolling cart to the side of the kitchen island, and collapses onto the sofa. Once there, he pulls off his leg brace and drops it to the floor, where it lands with a loud clang. “No drinks on the sofa, unless they're water. The fridge should have some liquid for you to suck down. I still hate you, but I'd look bad if you died at my house.” He reaches into husband pocket, pulls out what Dave quickly identifies as a crude joint, lights it, and begins smoking.

Obviously, Dave has to ask, “Oh, but you can smoke weed in here?”

“First of all,” Karkat counters, taking a deep drag from the roll, “I live here. So, I can do what I want. Secondly, this has a medical use. Thirdly, it’s none of your business what I do.”

“Oh? So that’s some high grade shit?”

“You thick motherfucker.” As Karkat speaks, smoke from his lips wafts the undeniable, not entirely pleasant smell into Dave’s face. “No. It’s not. Because it’s not legal in this state yet. This is from that Falman bastard.”

“Well, that’s high quality to me. I just bum mine off Adamska.”

“That Russian bastard? His is mostly just dirt. I wouldn’t trust him as far as I could throw his stupid, twinky little ass.” Another inhale. “Although, he does have a nice ass.”

 

Karkat’s parents seem to be polar opposites. His mother is soft-spoken, a perfect image of a nurturing and calm woman. His father, however, is abrasive; he speaks rarely, offers few words, and has been glaring at Dave from his spot on his white leather armchair for the past hour, which is the entirety of the span of time he’s been home. How the result of these two people would be Karkat baffled Dave. Then again, how did he derive from the same people who produced his brother?

“So...”

“I’m reading the news,” responds Karkat’s father.

Karkat, meanwhile, smirks. He lounges back on the sofa, with his legs elevated on one of the armrests. He, too, is busy reading something, although he’s reading a romance novel. It’s the sort of thing that Dave wouldn’t dare so much as peek at, so actually reading it is beyond him.

By now, it’s clear that no one is willing to talk. So, without much else to do, Dave gathers his things and wanders off to the sparsely furnished guest room. There, after browsing the internet for a while, he falls asleep.


	20. Symphony #40

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> HEY! IT’S THAT MOZART ASSHOLE!

DAVE STRIDER wakes to the sound of, of all things, goddamned Mozart, and the smell of pancakes. He wakes to the realization that he’s in a luxurious bed, wrapped in sheets smoother than the most finely polished marble, and, beyond that, he finds that a black cat has perched itself at the foot of his bed.

Sitting up and leaning forward, he sees the tag on its collar: Shakespeare. Of course, if this is Karkat’s cat, he’d name it something stupid like that. Obviously.

With eyes wide, and its head cocked slightly to the side, it seems to say, “You usually wake up this early?” Small paws carefully plod forward, until whiskers tickle pale skin.

After playing hard to get, Dave runs his hand down the cat’s back a few times, eliciting a soft purr. Then, as the cat jumps down, Dave follows. He throws on something decent to wear — an old sweatshirt and some jeans — before wandering downstairs. There, he’s met by absolute silence, save for the sound of Karkat’s mother cooking.

“Ah. David,” she begins.

“Dave...” A pained pause, laden with the implications of the only person who ever regularly uses his real name. “It’s just Dave.”

“Oh, well, Dave, you’re up before everyone else.” She, too, pauses. Full lips form a small, thoughtful pout, while long fingers run through wavy black hair. “Well, Shivin is awake, but he’s also at work, so I guess that doesn’t really count.”

Dave, having nothing of note to say to this, remains silent.

Dolorosa continues speaking, her tone just as cheerful as before. “Do you like pancakes? They’re Karkat’s favorite. I put cinnamon, fennel, and rice flour in. Karkat just adores them.”

The very idea of Karkat being so enthusiastic about such a dish brings a smirk to Dave’s face. Honestly, he finds it hard to imagine the loud, bombastic man actually losing his shit in a good way. Still... “Really? He likes them that much?”

“Oh, he’d eat these all day, if I let him. Which I don’t.” She tuts. “I make these early, so they can cool, before I make the rest of the breakfast. We’re having _idli_ and _sambhar_. Karkat told me to translate that for you, though. So, rice cakes and spicy sauce.”

“Ah.” Dave nods.

“I thought you’d be more talkative. Karkat has been ranting to us since the beginning of the year about how much you ramble.”

Dave pauses. So, Karkat speaks of him to his parents? “I ain’t got much to say right now, I guess.”

“Fair enough.”

Fresh, fluffy, still-steaming pancakes are gently slipped off of a pan and onto an awaiting plate. Said plate is, intriguingly, made of shining wood, and the hand-carved details make it obvious that it was expensive. Intricate designs, predominantly featuring elephants, run around the outer rim of the plate.

“So, who named the cat?” Dave asks.

“Karkat.”

Fucking figures.

A soft, low rumble echoes through the home. The elevator door closest to the kitchen slides open, and a bedraggled Karkat steps forth. His hair is even wilder than usual, all spikes and incongruous shapes, and dark shadows underscore his eyes. It seems he’s neglected to prepare himself beyond throwing on sweatpants and a Skaia University hoodie. His left leg drags behind him, rarely seeming to obey his body, and he moves with no sense of urgency.

“Oh, so you’re awake, now,” Dolorosa smiles.

Karkat nods. As he moves forward, his crutches come down with an almost rhythmic, heavy thud. When he makes his way to the living room, where Dave is, he purposefully avoids the sofa and, instead, settles into his his father’s armchair. “Hey, Strider.” He speaks without looking at Dave.

“Hm?”

“Nothing, numbskull, I was just saying hello.”

Silence settles upon the room, where it spreads, like a fog, until even the cat noiselessly sitting on a windowsill. The tail wags slowly, like a clock pendulum, and the eyes are locked on Dave.

Eventually, breakfast is ready. Dolorosa brings everyone their plates, and everyone begins eating.

There are no utensils. Rather, the food is taken between the forefinger and thumb, and either eaten plain, or dipped into the _sambhar_. When Dave tries this mixture, he finds that his tongue is quickly set ablaze, but a distinctly threatening glare from Karkat puts a damper on any objections he has. He finishes quickly, and stews in the tingling nerves of his own mouth.

* * *

Many miles away—many, many, many miles away—and, in fact, on the opposite side of the country, near Los Angelos, KEITH KOGANE hides in the standing wardrobe in the room of Lance Sanchez. He watches, silently, and tries not to act as if he’d just been in bed with Lance.

Not that anything had happened. Or, rather, nothing had had the time to happen, primarily because of the unexpected interruption of Lance’s younger brother, Marco.

“Yeah, sure, buddy, I’ll fix your dino for you.” Lance gingerly takes a plastic dinosaur, the tail of which has been removed, from his younger sibling. “Now, I’ll need some time to get him all fixed up, alright? You want to run along and find Veronica?”

The younger boy nods, then scampers off, without a clue in his mind that he’d just absolutely wrecked a nice, romantic moment. The door clicks shut behind him.

And, with a sigh of relief, Keith stumbles out of the closet, but only in the most physical sense, for the metaphorical sense of the phrase has long since been done. “Dumbass!” He mutters, playfully punching Lance on the shoulder, “You don’t lock your own goddamned door?”

“Well, I thought Marco would be at school!”

“It’s SATURDAY!”

“It is?” There’s a pause, during which Lance checks his phone, before offering a shy smile. “Oh. Well, shit, it is.”

“Fuck, this is going to be the weirdest break ever, isn’t it?”

“You bet your sweet mullet it will be,” counters Lance, now offering the widest and dumbest of grins. “I’d say bet your ass, but your mullet is way more impressive than that.”

“I’m not sure if I should be flattered or offended, so I’m just going to pretend I never heard that one, Sanchez.”

* * *

Again, a certain-distance-of-which-I-the-author-am-not-entirely-aware-of away, ROSE LALONDE stands, T-posing, in the middle of Kanaya’s bedroom. Currently, she is being measured for what Kanaya assures her will be an “absolutely and very much worth it Yuletide present”, though she has also been told that she will have to “suspend her excitement for some time, for the details will not certainly not be revealed before the holiday for which it is intended”. Not that this really matters, she’s simply enjoying spending time with her girlfriend. And, of course, this is interrupted by the ringing of her phone.

The two women, in unison, sigh. Kanaya, being the most available of the pair, retrieves the phone. A brief glance at the screen is followed by an eye roll. “It’s your brother, no doubt having an identity crisis.”

“Oh, of course he is. What else does he do?” Rose takes the phone, answers the call, and speaks, “What, precisely, is it this time, Dave?”

The response is heavy with a panic and fear that Rose has never before heard in her (technically half-) brother’s voice. Though his tone remains relatively flat, he speaks more quickly than usual, and, with her knowledge of Dave’s peculiarities, it’s easy for Rose to pick up on the slight edge in his voice. “Okay, so I thought I killed Karkat but it turns out he’s just prone to medical problems, ain’t that a surprise, huh? So, anyhow, I was just talking to him and he fuckin’ dropped. Just. Boom. Down like a fuckin’ boob out of its bra. And I was pretty fuckin’ freaked by that, obviously, I mean, I figured he hated me, but I’d didn’t think he’d hate me enough to just straight up drop dead on me. Well, anyhow...”

By now, and with Kanaya now growing concerned, Rose presses her brother for more information. “Would you mind getting to the point, Dave?”

“Karkat apparently was dead for, like, ten seconds, and that’s kind of my fault, but he’s fine, now. He’s awake and shit, but he told me to call Kanaya. ‘Well, fuck,’ I said, since I don’t have her number. So, instead, I called you—”

By now, Rose is also concerned, both for her brother and for Kanaya’s friend (and, admittedly, a mild confidant of her own). “DAVE!”

Now, Dave’s comments flow forth with such rapidity that they seem to be part of one, massive word. “Karkat went into fuckin’ cardiac arrest and just got a pacemaker and I stood over a dead body for ten seconds thinking it was a prank, okay?”

At this point, Rose can’t help but feel like she’s been slapped across the face. Obviously, part of this is the sudden shift in mood. (Damn. That’s one way to dampen the mood of fall break.) She’s also floored by her brother’s admission. “You... didn’t do anything?”

“I mean, I started CPR when I fuckin’ figured out what the fuck was goin’ down right in front of my dumbass salad,” snaps Dave. “And, before you ask, yes. Bro forced me to get CPR certification in high school. Why? I don’t fuckin’ know.”

“Admittedly, that wasn’t my question.”

“Well, what was it?”

“I was going to ask if you were okay. I understand that Karkat is fine, and I can hear him yelling in the background—”

“Yeah, he’s kind of waving around his dad’s position as one of the head surgeons to get prime cuts of mutton. Because, apparently, hospitals just hide the good shit. Who fuckin’ knows? I’d say he’s screaming his stupid heart out, by that might be too soon. So—”

A sigh. Rose butts in, interrupting her brother’s rambling. “I was going to ask if you’re okay.”

“Oh.” There’s a long, awkward pause, punctuated only by a final declaration of, “I guess?”

“That’s all you have to say on the matter? Those are your words? Your commentary? Your final answer?”

“Yup. Final fuckin’ answer is I ain’t got a damn clue.” And, with that said, Dave hangs up.

This, not surprisingly, leaves Rose and Kanaya absolutely stunned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As usual, comments and feedback are welcome! Thanks for sticking with this fic if you’re here, since I kinda went on an almost year log disappearing act. >_> Anyhow, here comes the slow burn.


	21. Pinball Wizard

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just realized I fucked up which one Marco was. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ Oh well. Anyhow. This chapter is a game of emotional ping pong. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

The hospital ceiling is about as interesting as waiting to get back a test you know you failed. The room is silent, save for the beeping of the monitors and the muffled yells of an irate patient down the hall. And, as he lays in bed, KARKAT VANTAS thinks back.

Not too far back. He’s not reminiscing about an old memory. Rather, he’s thinking of an incident that occurred less than a day ago. He remembers little of it, but what he does remember is telling. He remembers the feeling in his chest — a fluttering, sputtering lurch, which ultimately ended in cardiac failure, or so he’s been told. But, before that happened, he had felt it coming. He felt a tightness, a twisting knot in his throat. As he clutched his chest, he looked up. He saw Dave, and he saw something he’d never seen before in the other man’s face. He saw fear and concern.

Vaguely, he recalls that Dave had spoken to him. “You ain’t lookin’ so hot, pal. Maybe you should sit down?” He’d offered him an outstretched hand, which Karkat had quite boldly refused. Then, there was nothing.

But, thinking back, Karkat finds himself wondering... Could there be more to Dave than an aloof mask of indifference? Perhaps, as Rose has said, there really is a person beneath it, after all...

* * *

Cross-legged, in the middle of the field behind the hospital, DAVE STRIDER sits. While a cigarette is between his lips, he doesn’t dare light it; the signs say not to. His mind races.

Then, it stops.

“Hey,” Karkat speaks up.

Dave looks up, only to find Karkat sitting above him, in a wheelchair, with his left leg crossed over his right. His brows are furrowed, and he refuses to meet Dave’s gaze. “I think I owe your sorry ass an apology...”

“Hm?” Dave hums. He folds his arms across his chest, and his brows come together. “Oh. For what?”

“Being a dickweed.”

“Same?” It’s both a question and a statement. An agreement and an uncertainty.

Karkat doesn’t comment on that, however. Instead, he continues, “I guess... I’ve always been an asshole. You know, being a walking corpse and all. Being told you’re dying since you were three isn’t so fucking great for your social life. Similarly, I don’t recommend it for your self esteem. You’ll turn into absolute overlord douchebag, like me.”

By this point, Dave is smirking. “And you say _I_ rant?”

There’s a distinct embarrassment in Karkat’s expression. His lips are parted slightly, his brows are furrowed. “I... I’m being fucking sincere, pouring out my entire fucking soul, expunging my innermost thoughts, and you’re going to be a stupid jackass!?”

“The fuck you expectin’ from me, dude?” The smirk remains on Dave’s face as he folds his hands behind his head and leans back, quickly falling onto the soft grass. “Look, I guess we’ll trade intimate life secrets. I was raised in a penthouse by my older brother. He hated me. Blamed me for my parents’ deaths. They were driving home from the hospital when they were killed in an accident. How did I survive? I ain’t got a damn clue.”

“And?” prompts Karkat.

“And nothing. That’s all I’ll tell you. And you tell another soul, I’ll kill you before nature will.”

Though his voice is filled with hostility, there’s a hint of sincerity in Karkat’s reply. Not that Dave notices. “Ditto.”

* * *

It is often said that the best laid plans are often led astray, and that is _exactly_ what has happened to the fall break of a certain PIDGE GUNDERSON. Right now, crammed onto the middle of her room, which was definitely not made to fit three people at once, she twists and contorts herself to fit. “Dammit, Hunk! Move over!” She shoves her friend, who totters precariously on the section of sofa he occupies.

“Yeah?! I’d do that if our stupid new pal wasn’t getting prepared for a drawing pose!” He gestures to a certain John Egbert, whose back is against Hunk’s side, and whose legs dangle over the edge of the sofa.

“Both of you are missing your shots!” exclaims John, now frantically clicking at his Wii controller’s trigger button. “Ah! SHIT! And... I’m dead.”

Pidge responds with a triumphant laugh. “Well, rules are fucking rules. Off the sofa!”

“WHAT!?”

By now, Hunk has gently lowered John off of the sofa, shoving him, instead, onto the floor. He smirks, then makes himself more comfortable. “Finally! Some breathing room.”

“Now, maybe someone can tell me when that was made a rule?”

As she guns down a few more zombies, Pidge shrugs. “I did. Just now. Because this is my house.”

John, seemingly unable to come up with any evidence contrary to this statement, shrugs. “Fair enough.” He spreads himself out on the lime green throw rug. “Hunk, you suck at this game.”

“I’m a casual gamer.” A shrug. A wistful sigh. “Cooking Mama doesn’t have nearly as much anxiety as this game.”

“There are no guns in Cooking Mama, Hunk,” quips Pidge.

“You sure about that?” counters John.

Hunk scoffs. “Cooking Mama would never use violence! She just wants to make some bomb ass cakes.”

“You’re dead, Hunk. Off the sofa.”

A sigh is followed by compliance. Hunk joins John on the rug, while Pidge spreads out. “So, how’s life down here?”

“Oh, it’s fine. Lots of carpet lint.” 

“Yeah, yeah.” Hunk nods, as if he is agreeing with a serious, world-altering statement. “You wanna’ go steal some of those icy pops that Pidge is hiding in her freezer?”

“Oh, totally!”

As the two men rise from their spots on the floor, Pidge pauses the game. “OH! DON’T YOU DARE!”

By now, the two men are sprinting.

And Pidge, hot on their trail, beckons, “HOW DO YOU EVEN KNOW ABOUT THAT!?”

“Shiro says Matt hides ice pops in fish stick boxes, too!” Hunk calls back.

John laughs. “Like brother, like sister!”

“DON’T TOUCH THOSE ICE POPS!”

“Pidge, dear?” calls Sam, Pidge’s father, who is studying in another room, “Are you sharing with our guests?”

The commentary brings Pidge to a cartoon-like halt. A low growl escapes her, and shoots the two grinning men before her a burning glare. “Yes, Dad!”

“Wonderful! Boys, go ahead and have some ice pops!”

“Don’t mind if we do,” John and Hunk respond in unison.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the short chapter! Comments feedback and suggestions are still always welcome!


	22. Phantom's Theme (Beauty and the Beast)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **[Phantom's Theme (Beauty and the Beast)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_e-z25zwKO4)** by Paul Williams

On Wednesday, due to his parents’ apparently immensely busy schedule, **DAVE STRIDER** is tasked with bringing Karkat home from the hospital. He’s been entrusted with the keys to the family’s wheelchair accessible van and, at precisely noon o’clock (and that’s exactly how he thinks of the time in his head) he’s parked out front.

Karkat arrives a few moments later. While it’s obvious he’s not used to the wheelchair, he can still use it fairly efficiently. He settles into the car alone, refusing any advances of help, and locks the chair into place. Then, with a look that could fall a thousand of the mightiest bosses of the hardest games from hell, he glances towards Dave. “Let me guess? They’re busy?”

“Your parents? Yeah. They said to tell you they were really—” Dave isn’t given a chance to finish.

Karkat interjects. “Whatever. Just get me the fuck out of here.” He leans forward, rubbing the side of his neck as he does so. An enigmatic huff escapes him. “I’m not exactly surprised. They’re always busy. But I’d rather they send someone I’ve actually ridden with before.”

“Are you saying you don’t think I’m a great driver?” Dave responds, his voice filled with mock offense. “I’m an amazing driver! I have only rear-ended two cars in my entire life!”

“That’s not comforting.”

“Is the chair permanent?” Dave switches the topic with little fanfare.

“The chair?” Karkat offers an indignant snort. “It’s not a bad word, dumbass. It’s a wheelchair. And why would you care? What, are you afraid I’ll cramp your band’s style?”

“Just wondering.” Dave shrugs. He pulls a cigarette from his pocket and sticks it between his lips, though he refrains from lighting it. “Do you have to be so goddamned contrary whenever I say somethin’?” His voice slips, revealing a strong southern accent. “I’m just tryin’ to make some damn small talk, buddy. You act like this towards everyone?”

“Just you.” Karkat folds his arms across his chest and stares pointedly at the floor of the car. “The answer is maybe. I don’t know. They recommend it, but I don’t really give a fuck. I’ll be dead in about thirty years or so, anyhow.”

“Cheerful.” Dave fiddles with the radio, eventually settling on NPR. The announcer drones on about recent events, though neither of the car’s occupants have much interest in listening.

In the rear view mirror, Dave watches as Karkat sinks deeper into his seat, as if trying to melt out of existence. The man's eyes are half-closed, his torso is encased in a hard plastic brace, and all that protects him from the frigid temperatures outside is a light grey bath robe.

When he finally works up the nerve to speak again, Dave finds himself falling back on old habits, as he often does when flustered. His voice is marked by a strong southern drawl, and he stumbles over his words with impeccable inelegance. “S-so... You... D-do you really only have thirty years?”

In contrast to this, Karkat's reply is given without so much as a single stutter. It's matter-of-fact, and as flat as a freshly repaved highway. “Optimistically. Heart failure is generally the beginning of the spiraling side to hell for me. Next will probably be my legs, since my muscles are absolutely fucked. It'll keep moving up from there, though.” There's a dry whit in his words, and a strangely serene hint of a smile on his face. “It's not that bad, you know. It's just reality. I've lived my entire life waiting to die, it's just a matter of when and how. You learn to live with it.”

“Oh.” Dave can feel the sweat beading at his brow. He's never been one to consider his own mortality, though he, too, often faced it at home. He's also unfamiliar with emotional territory, such as this. Again, he tries to keep the conversation going, only to flounder spectacularly, “You sure don't... seem... You ain't real bothered by it, huh?”

“Everyone's going to die eventually,” Karkat shrugs. “Hospital says I'll probably lose my ability to walk by the end of the year, and it sounds just about right to me. I could spend my whole life being a miserable shit stain on the face of the planet, or I could just do what I'm fucking doing. I can tell by your voice that you're just dripping with disgusting pity, now, Strider, so cut the shit. For all you know, you'll be hit by a train tomorrow. No one knows what'll happen in the future.” He folds his hands behind his head and leans back, wincing slightly as his right leg twists painfully inward at the knee. “But I survive one fucked up day at a time, just like you. That's the most anyone can do.”

There's a long pause.

Dave finds himself mulling over Karkat's words. Certainly, in his past, he's come close to death plenty of times. Sometimes, it was at the hands of his brother; other times, it was of his own doing. He's dabbled in the world of drugs and alcohol since he was twelve. He's never done anything hard, of course; it would've been to difficult to acquire it without Bro knowing, but he's certainly done his share of stupid shit. And, at the conclusion of all this introspection, he finds that all he can say is, simply, “I guess you're right.”

“Sure.” Another shrug. Karkat turns his head, so that he's looking out the window rather than into the rear view mirror. “And, just so we're clear, this exchange doesn't mean we're buddy-buddy now, got it?”

“Totally.”

* * *

Some distance away, in the middle of a grassy field, on a clear, pleasant night, **ROSE LALONDE** sits alongside her girlfriend, Kanaya. The two stare idly at the stars as they make small talk. They've been like this for at least two hours, swapping juicy gossip and commentary on their classes. They've discussed the books they've been reading, and the shows that they're currently following. And, now, nestled in each other's embrace, they whisper sweet nothings.

“The stars could never compare to the light of your eyes,” Rose says, her voice filled with comical levels of lofty romanticism.

Kanaya chuckles. She rolls her eyes. “Oh, but their brilliance is incomparable to your personality,” she retorts.

“The world turns upon your grace, my dear.”

“And, yet, your grace outshines mine with the power of a thousand suns.” This appears to be Kanaya's breaking point. She lets slip a snort of laughter.

Rose seizes the opportunity. “I win again! I remain the supreme prosaic lesbian.”

Despite rolling her eyes again, Kanaya is beaming. “Oh, of course you are.”

* * *

\-- grimAuxiliatrix [GA] began pestering turntechGodhead [TG] at 11:30! --

GA: You Know When They Say To Make A Person's Heart Stop They Don't Mean It Literally Right

TG: i don't have a crush on him and i never will  
TG: besides he hates my guts he can't stand me

GA: Likely Story  
GA: Anyhow Rose Has Informed Me That The Two Of You Have Apparently Bonded Somewhat

TG: and what's it matter to you  
TG: why are you so interested in us getting together anyhow

GA: Because I Have Been Karkat's Friend For Some Time Actually  
GA: We Used To Go To The Same Elementary School As Children  
GA: He's A Hopeless Romantic And As A Friend I Am Simply Trying to Help

TG: help who me or him

\-- grimAuxiliatrix [GA] ceased pestering turntechGodhead [TG] at 11:45! --

TG: dammit

* * *

“How old are you, anyhow?” asks an inquisitive **DAVE STRIDER** , who is currently seated on the floor of the Vantas’ living room.

From his spot on the sofa, Karkat shrugs. “You're still going on about this?”

“I'm just curious, now. Is that a crime?”

A sigh. After a few moments, there's also a resigned reply, “Nineteen. I'm nineteen. I'm a year behind due to having my spine forcibly bolted upright about two years ago.”

“That's why you're so short.”

“Probably.” After heaving himself into a sitting position, Karkat moves to sit in his wheelchair. “You didn't like dinner, did you?” he asks this as he makes his way to the fridge, from which he pulls a jug of iced tea. He drinks it straight from the gallon, wipes his mouth on his sleeve, and continues searching for something else.

Dave, meanwhile, offers his honest opinion. “I'm no stranger to hot shit, but that was a little too hot.”

“I hid some chicken nuggets in here for you.” Karkat emerges from the depths of the fridge, now clutching a small plastic container of cold nuggets. “As much as I don't like you, I'd feel kind of bad letting you starve to death at my house.” The statement is concluded when the nuggets are unceremoniously dumped onto a paper plate and thrown into the microwave.

“You  _do_ have a heart, Vantas.”

“Hm?” Karkat turns, so that he's looking over his shoulder, before offering what Dave swears is a hint of a smile, though it's gone before any level of concrete confidence can be reached. “I'm being nice, stupid. Don't push your luck.”

Though he doubts that Karkat would follow through on his implied threat of withholding palatable food, Dave acquiesces. “Understood, sir.”

* * *

\-- mulletLover [ML] opened a memo on board MY BOYFRIEND IS A DUMBASS --  
\-- mulletLover [ML] responded to memo at 14:32! --

ML: That's it everyone! Lance has finally lost his mind!

\-- installWizard [IW] responded to memo at 14:32! --

IW: gotta have something before you can lose it.

\-- loverBoy [LB] responded to memo at 14:33! --

LB: i think i take offense to that pidge

ML: You *think*?

LB: if i lose my mind it's all because of you boo boo

ML: No.

LB: honey boo boo

ML: Double no.

\-- bakingBro [BB] responded to memo at 14:34! --

BB: i don't know what's happening but something is definitely happening here.

IW: fucking great observation, hunk.

BB: uwu

ML: Just so you know, lance, i'm not going to bail you out of jail if your neighbors call for noise disturbance complaints.

LB: first of all taping a wireless speaker to a roomba isn't a crime  
LB: second of all who doesn't love when a roomba rides down their street playing dancing queen

BB: probably a lot of people.

IW: nah. i think it's a great idea lance.

ML: You're not helping, pidge.

LB: then it's decided dancing queen roomba is ready for action

ML: I hate all of you. So much.

\-- mulletLover [ML] has closed the memo! --

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as always, comments, feedback, and suggestions are always welcome! thanks for reading!


	23. Theme of L.A. Noire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **[Main Theme](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xiGKxCAg_0o)** from _L.A. Noire_ , by Andrew Hale (2011)

It’s far too early for him to be awake. The clock flashes, showing that it’s 5:30, and a quick glance at his phone only confirms it. **DAVE STRIDER** is awake, and he can’t fall back to sleep, no matter how hard he tries. Nothing works, and, being in the home of a man who’s barely more than an acquaintance to him, he finds himself uncertain of what to do. He doesn’t know where the food is, nor does he feel comfortable simply raiding the fridge of the Vantas family. So, when he hears someone stirring in the room beside him—a room that he knows belongs to Karkat—he jumps on the opportunity. He throws on some clothes, and scrambles into the hallway. Then, with all the poise of a wet string bean, he knocks on the door.

A disshelvaled, tired-looking Karkat answers. It seems he either hasn’t had time or just didn’t care enough to get dressed and, while Dave is unsure which of these statements is true, the narrator can definitely say that the truth is that he simply doesn’t care. The small scar on his left shoulder, still crisscrossed by stitches, is visible, as are fading marks from a myriad of other surgeries. Of these, the most prominent is a long, painful-looking line, which runs down his right side, spanning from his lower rib to the top of his ribcage. Not that any of this bothers him; he’s more interested in glaring at the man standing before him. “What? What the fuck do you want?”

“I—” Dave finds his words catching in his throat. He finds himself staring at well-toned arms and a muscular upper body, which fades into a rounder abdomen. He finds himself studying the curvatures of his body. “W-w-what’cha doin’ up, dude?” he stammers.

Karkat offers a wry smile, though it fades after a few seconds. He leans back, so that he tilts himself into a wheelie, and absentmindedly balances himself as he speaks, “I’m usually up early. It takes me a while to get ready. Getting dressed, taking my medication, and doing my daily stretches. All that fun, exciting bullshit.” He drops his chair back onto all four wheels with a resounding thud. “What about you?”

“Couldn’t sleep.” Dave shrugs. He buries his hands in his pockets.

“Fair enough.” Karkat backs up. He fiddles with the wheels of the chair, and it dawns upon Dave that this one is different. It’s lower and sleeker, lacking any arm rests, and seems to fit his body perfectly. The frame is an unobtrusive, unassuming grey, perhaps best described as a few shades darker than battleship grey, and a rubber tube surrounds the grip rims. The back is low, and it appears to be contoured with a slight lean to the left.

Naturally, lacking anything else insightful to say, Dave comments on it. “New ride?”

“Old one,” Karkat rolls his shoulders, which draws a loud pop from the joints. “I got it recently, but I don’t use it often. Or...” he rubs the back of his neck as he continues, “I didn’t. I probably will soon. Again, I hope that doesn’t ruin your weird band’s image, or whatever.”

“No, it’s fine.” As bad as he knows it sounds, Dave can’t help but admit to himself that it’ll be a bit odd. At the very least, it’ll make the band stand out, and that isn’t necessarily a bad thing.

“Not sure I really believe it, but okay.” Karkat backs up, then gestures to his room. “You can come in, by the way. You look like a dumbass standing there and talking.”

Dave nods. He steps over the threshold, into a room that’s an almost meticulous level of messy. The floor is entirely clear, yet every surface not covered by books or statuettes is covered with wrinkled clothing, pill bottles, and what appear to be a myriad of medical supplies. Family photos are pinned to the wall, and it strikes Dave that Karkat is standing, unassisted, in many of them, up until those taken within the past five years or so.

Though he would usually start blabbering, Dave finds himself wanting nothing more than silence. There’s something odd about being in someone else’s room. In fact, this is the first time he’s ever been in anyone’s room beyond his own. It’s something intimate, and it’s a glimpse into a life he’ll never know and a world he’ll never understand.

“You look lost,” Karkat’s comment draws Dave out of his introspection.

He responds, though he continues to study the wall of family photos. “It’s just weird. I was never allowed to go fuckin’ anywhere as a kid. I guess I just ain’t used to being in other people’s rooms.”

“Makes sense.” Karkat switches from his chair to his bed. He stands, leaning heavily against the handles of his wheelchair, and awkwardly swings himself around, onto the desired surface. From there, he grabs the chair and turns it upside down. He studies the parts closely, and begins working on tightening some of the bolts and screws.

“How long’ve you been up?” Dave asks, still gracelessly floundering for a conversation. When the question isn’t immediately answered, he adds, “What’cha doin’?”

“Give me a fucking minute, dumbass.” After finishing his work on one of the screws, he looks up. “First of all, I just woke up maybe twenty minutes ago. And, as you can clearly and plainly see, I’m putting this thing together. It’s functional, but I’m tightening everything so it doesn’t just collapse beneath my ass.”

“You want help?”

A snort of laughter escapes Karkat. “I doubt you could fix a damn seesaw.”

“Fair.” Dave keeps the fact that he often tinkered with things he found in his room as a child to himself. “So...”

“God,” by now, Karkat has once again returned to his work. “You’re So fucking awkward. It’s almost endearing. Almost.”

“Oh. I mean... I’m not...” heat rises to Dave’s cheeks. He turns his face away, choosing to focus on a collection of Advil bottles, all apparently filled with spare change.

“If you’re still on this planet, could you pass me the smaller flathead on the desk?”

Dave obeys the order, and returns to watching Karkat work. He studies how his muscles move, though he convinces himself it’s purely out of boredom. What else would he be doing? “What’re you doing when you graduate?”

“Who knows?” Karkat shrugs. “You?”

“I’m plannin’ on going pro with the band. Not that you’d have to stay...”

“Maybe I will stay. It’s all about what happens and what doesn’t happen in the future, really.” There’s a brief pause, followed by a nod to a dusty trophy on top of the dresser. “I wanted to be a movie star, honestly. I was real big on drama. Not that anyone would hire me.” There’s a flicker of sadness, covered by a cynical snarl. “Not that I’d be an ideal star, anyhow.”

“Why not?”

“How many shows call for a short, perpetually-depressed-and-hungover-looking Indian man in a wheelchair, Dave?”

“Okay.” Again, Dave diverts his gaze. While he pretends to study the trophy, apparently for outstanding achievement in a drama camp, he’s actually more focused on a photo nearby, showing an almost unbelievably happy young Karkat, trophy in hand. “Damn. I get it. You didn’t need to be _that_ fuckin’ harsh, bud.”

Karkat responds with a shrug and an oddly bitter sigh. “Most dreams aren’t meant to come true, I guess.” At this point, he groans. The screwdriver in his hand clatters to the floor, and the fingers of his left hand curl inwards. “Fuck.”

Dave, on instinct, grabs the fallen tool and holds it out, until Karkat eventually takes it. “What was that?”

“Why would it matter to you?”

“I guess it don’t...”

Despite his initial defensiveness, Karkat still offers an answer, “Muscle contraction. They happen, sometimes. I don’t make them happen, and I sure as fuck don’t like when they do.” He gives his chair a final glance, and drops it back onto the floor. Then, he switches back, lifting himself from the bed to the waiting wheelchair. “I’m going for a walk, if you want to join. I have to make sure everything is working, and I’m tired of staying inside. I guess you could come, if you want.”

He pulls on a faded black sweatshirt and covers it with a jeans jacket, covered in patches ranging from destinations he’s probably been—India, Costa Rica, South Africa, and so on—to things he enjoys, such as a faded patch for a high school debate club. While he doesn’t bother changing out of his sweatpants, he takes a moment to spread a throw blanket, patterned with designs of small elephants in various poses, over his lap.

 

Admittedly,  **KARKAT VANTAS** doesn't really hate Dave. He's not exactly keen on him, but he can't help but find him attractive. At the most basic level, he can say that the blond is nice to look at. He's attractive in all the most conventionally western ways. He has facial symmetry, a defined jawline, and nice hair; perhaps the only detractors, which, for Karkat, aren't really downsides, are his slightly crooked nose and the light scars that crisscross his face and the back of his hands. His voice is nice to listen to, with that rugged cowboy quality mixed with a smooth, mid-pitched drawl.

Not that Karkat likes Dave. He can barely stand the man, even as he studies the way the early morning light filters through his hair and highlights roots far lighter than the rest of his golden blond hair. There's little more to Dave than a pretty face; it's not as if he has a sense of charmingly strange humor. And, by all means, the way he sometimes stops to stare at a passing bird or scampering doe doesn't hint at a sentimental person beneath the passive exterior.

“It's... uh... It's pretty nice out, huh?” Dave's cheeks are pink, and Karkat isn't quite sure if it's because of the cold winds or if it's something else.

“It's so cold my fingers are sticking to the aluminum pushrims, dumbass,” quips Karkat. “Are you really so out of things to say that you're going to ramble about the weather? Do you just talk to heard yourself talk?”

“Maybe.” The crunch of Dave's boots against the frozen earth stop. He looks to his companion, then undoes his faded red scarf. As he passes it over, he utters under his breath, “You look cold...”

“I'm fine,” lies Karkat, even as he accepts the gesture. As he wraps the scarf around his neck, he finds himself inhaling Dave's scent—a mixture of old cardboard record sleeves, guitar polish, tobacco smoke, and traditional Old Spice. (And, while he would vehemently deny it if asked, one can be assured that his spotty history of middle school flings is what allows him to so quickly identify Dave's brand of deodorant.) “Thanks.”

“No problem.” Dave pulls out and lights a cigarette. He takes a deep drag, only to end up coughing.

“For as much as you smoke, dumbass, you sound like it's your first time.”

“I have a cold.” The flatness of his words makes it impossible to tell if he's lying. “School starts back in three days. I guess we'll go back Sunday?”

“Sunday morning.”

“Specific.”

“Are we going to just trade shitty one-word answers, or are we actually going to make some semblance of an attempt at proper human interaction, you sack of rotting horse shit?”

Though it's faint and swift, there's a hint of a smile on Dave's face. Then, it's gone. He shakes his head, as if to shoo a pesky thought, before plucking the cigarette from his mouth. He flicks some of the burning embers to the ground, and crushes them beneath the heel of his faded red Converse. “I'm... Uh. I'm. I'm sorry ‘bout the whole ‘thinkin'-your-heart-attack-was-a-prank’ thing, y’know.” His nerves are audible in his voice; Karkat has learned to listen for the signs. He stammers, and normally subdued accent grows comically in strength. In fact, Karkat finds it hard not to laugh at how over-the-top thick his drawl is.

“It's fine. I'm sure it'd freak most people out. We're not supposed to die, right? You and I, we're too young to die.” Karkat shrugs. He's lived with his mortality as a constant companion for long enough. He's made amends with it; at times, as much as he'd never admit it aloud, it seems as if it's a welcome friend. “Look, if you're feeling guilty, quit it. No harm was done. I'm still here, and, from what I heard, you did your best.”

“Y-you're not gonna yell? I... I mean... I fucked up. I screwed the pooch so damned hard it should be illegal.” Dave refuses to meet Karkat's gaze. He keeps his head held high, as if to lord his height over Karkat; or, perhaps, as if to avoid making his emotional vulnerability apparent. “I'd totally understand if you're pissed.”

“I'm not. It's fine. And that's it. We don't need to bring up this tired old topic again. Let's quit resurrecting this miserable, zombified horse and beating it to fucking death, okay?” In a way, Karkat finds it flattering how much Dave cares about his welfare—or, at least, how much he appears to. From his perspective, he's little more than a random nobody. He's a drummer, and he shows up sporadically to perform at gigs. (Unbeknownst to him, and, in a way, even to Dave, there's a deeper connection. As often as he trivializes it, Dave considers all his band mates a member of his family. His band is the closest he has to any sort of recognizable family, and he'd go to extreme lengths to keep it that way.) “You're an okay guy, Strider. Annoying, stuck-up, and stupid, but you're pretty fucking decent.”

“Thanks.” His reply is muttered so softly and quickly that it's barely audible.

“Come on. My mom's probably up, now. Let's get back to the house.” Karkat concludes the oddly insightful discussion.

As much as he'd hate to admit it, he finds that he's grown closer to Dave. There's more to the man than meets the eye, and that mystery—what some might rightfully consider _tsundere_ —is starting to draw him in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as always, thanks for reading! comments and feedback are always welcome.


	24. Hotaru

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **[Hotaru](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SwxdDw3Z8JU)** by Radwimps (2006)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> two functional relationships and one pair of stupid dumbasses UwU  
> CONTENT WARNING: Pesterlog, with Sollux's quirks, at the end. If you don't want to read it, just skip the final section. since it's plot relevant, i'll put the tl;dr as an end note.

**KEITH KOGANE** stands, smirking, at the top of a hill. His phone is ready, and his thumb hovers over the red button to record all the beauty that is to unfold. “So, Lance, you ready?”

From his spot, sitting in a child-sized red wagon, Lance offers a thumbs up. He pulls his goggles on, and lets fly a loud whoop. “You bet it, Mullet.”

“You know what? I’m letting that slide just because I’m about to watch gravity kick your ass, Lance.” Keith’s thumb drops, pressing the record button.

Seconds later, Lance launches himself down the hill. He’s about halfway down before the inevitable happens. The wagon hits a rock, tips, and lands the wild young man amidst a nearby bush. After recovering from this mild shock, and sporting some scrapes and bruises, Lance stands, raising his hands in the air victoriously. “HELL YEAH!”

“Aw, damn, I was hoping for something more like a knock on the head to kick some sense into you,” Keith jests. He stops the recording, offers his hand to his boyfriend, and pulls him to his feet. “That was the dumbest thing you’ve ever done.”

“Really?” pouts Lance, going so far as to jut out his lower lip, “Even dumber than surfing down the side of the hill our school was on with nothing but some mud and a trash can lid?”

Keith pauses. He rubs his chin, hums, and shrugs. “Fuck. You’re right. You broke your arm doing that! So, this is the second dumbest thing you’ve ever done.”

“Had to have surgery to fix the arm. Thank you for recognizing the truth, Keith.” Lance snickers. “You got that on video, right? Marco’s going to lose his fucking mind when he sees what I just did.”

“Yeah, and so will your mom.”

“What she doesn’t know won’t kill her, right?”

“Siblings blab, Lance.” Keith wags his finger disapprovingly. He helps Lance pick some of the stray leaves and twigs from his hair, savoring the softness. “But, hey, whatever you want to do. Isn’t my problem, right?”

“Probably not,” laughs Lance. He brushes some of the hair from Keith’s face and, to Keith’s chagrin, kisses him on the cheek. “You’re damned cute when you’re worrying about my Mom going apeshit over my antics.”

“Yeah, well, a dead boyfriend is a pretty downer way to end break, isn’t it?” huffs Keith, trying (and failing) to sound like this entire affair isn’t some of the funniest shit he’s personally witnessed in the past year.

Lance, meanwhile, makes no effort to hide his amusement. “Yeah, that’d suck.”

* * *

“I have ten cents and... a loose screw,” Kanaya mutters, staring at the assorted junk in her palm. “I assume that isn’t enough for gas, huh?”

 **ROSE LALONDE** rolls her eyes. She pulls into the gas station, uses her card, and begins refueling her hot pink Mini Cooper. “No, dear, that isn’t even enough to buy a chocolate bar.”

“Perhaps it would be enough for an incredibly shitty one,” volunteers Kanaya. She adjusts the green scarf covering her hair. “Or, maybe, we could throw it in a fountain and wish for a chocolate bar.”

“Wishful thinking.” Rose laughs. She stares at her girlfriend, allowing her gaze to linger on the soft curvature of her face. “You’ve got a bit of hair sticking out,” she mentions, gesturing the same spot on her own face.

Kanaya nods. She quickly tucks the stray strands back in place before offering an appreciative smile. “You’re always on top of things.”

“Thank you, I try.” There’s a beat, and a thoughtful hum from Rose. “I wonder how Dave and Karkat are doing.”

“Well, they’ve either murdered one another or are having some choice discussions about whatever it is they enjoy taking about.”

“I guess we’ll just have to see which it is when we get back to school, won’t we?”

* * *

As the day wears on, turning to noon, **DAVE STRIDER** finds himself growing increasingly bored. By the time he’d woken up, the house was empty. A hastily scrawled note on the kitchen counter, next to a bag of Hardee’s breakfast biscuits, informed him that the family had left to get Karkat’s final checkup prior to the resumption of the school semester. Of course, that must have been a while ago, so where the hell...?

The sound of the door opening interrupts Dave’s thoughts. Karkat enters, perched comfortably in his wheelchair, though his parents are nowhere to be seen. He supplies the answer to the question Dave wants to ask without being prompted, “We took separate cars. Mom and Dad were called out on an emergency. I came back home.”

“Oh.” Dave returns to his prior engagement: the thrilling sport of picking lint out of his pants pockets.

Karkat, meanwhile, enters the house. Heading straight for the kitchen, he immediately sets his sights on the fridge. “School starts back tomorrow.”

“That sure is a statement that is correct,” shrugs Dave.

“Are you always this obtuse?” There's a low thud, like a juice jug being placed back on the shelf, and Karkat reemerges from behind the fridge door. “I'm going out to the record store. You can come, if you want.”

“You just got home?”

“Yeah?” Karkat stops. He turns, so that he's facing Dave, and quirks his brow. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean? I can do what I fucking want, can't I? I go to the record store every Saturday, then go to the café next door. You got a problem with that?”

“You really like routine, huh?”

“That's not something I have to answer, now, is it, Strider? Look, are you coming or not?”

Seeing as there's nothing better to do, Dave agrees. He follows Karkat back to his car, and quietly settles into the passenger's side seat. Instinct drives him to keep his gaze locked out the window as Karkat gets in, though he can feel the car sway as the other man clambers into his spot. After about two minutes, the movement stops, and a seatbelt clicks. As the car begins to move, Dave chances a glance at the driver.

As far as he can tell, Karkat drives like a pro. One hand is on the wheel, and the other holds the stick for the pedals. It seems that the controls have been modified, so that both the indicator and the windshield wiper controls are on the left side. If Dave had to guess, this is how he'd learned how to drive. It seems second nature to him, though the entire process seems unnecessarily complex.

“Don't they make things to make driving easier?” asks Dave, his curiosity finally getting the best of him.

Karkat shrugs. “Sure. Hand controls are a thing. We're in the twenty-first century, dumbass.” His right hand rises, his wrist flicks deftly, and he eases on the brakes, “This is what I know, though, so I think I'm perfectly fine with it.”

“And it probably ain't cheap, right?”

“Oh, you fucking bet it isn't cheap. Not that I'd care. I could easily afford it. I just don't want it.”

A sort of thoughtful, conclusive hum comes from Dave.

 

The record store is located at the far end of an old 1980's strip mall. “Old Time Charms” is emblazoned over the doorway, in faded, flickering red letters. The automatic door slides open, and **KARKAT VANTAS** does his best to dust some of the dirt from his hands off before entering. As is usually the case, he's greeted by the store's muscular owner.

“Been a while since I've seen you, sir,” the storekeeper comments.

Karkat shrugs. “I'm at college, now, Equius.”

“As I recall. You know where everything is. The jazz section is where it always is.” Equius offers a dismissive wave, in the direction of the far eastern wall of the store, and returns to polishing a brass statue of a horse.

Tradition draws Karkat to his usual spot, only for the height of the table to settle in the pit of his stomach like a rotten Taco Bell tortilla—which, as anyone who has had the misfortune of stupidly ingesting such an abomination could attest to, is not a very nice thing to settle into one's stomach, if it even settles at all. The tables, alone, are barely enough to hold the weight of the records on top, much less  _his_ weight. He begins to formulate some sort of plan, only for a handful of records to be handed down to him.

He looks up, only to find a nervous-looking Dave Strider avoiding his gaze. “You... Uh. Ya’ looked like you needed a little help, pal... Dude. Uh. Acquaintance?” He shifts his weight back on forth on his feet. “Not that I'm ah... Not that you couldn’ do it, just that... You're all down there, and these records're all up here, an’... That wasn't what I meant to say. I—”

“Thanks,” Karkat interjects, tired of listening to Dave's roundabout excuses for his own odd brand of sincere stupidity. He takes the records, sets them in his lap, and begins to sift through them.

“I-I could stay h-here if... you... Do you need more help?”

“Sure.” Karkat answers without so much as looking up. As much as he wants to see the look on his newfound acquaintance's (friend's?) face, he's sure he'd just bust out laughing the minute he laid eyes on it. And he would. “You're still feeling guilty about the whole part where you let me technically die, right?”

“Yeah.”

The honesty of the statement burrows its way under Karkat's skin, and he lets a snort of laughter slip out. Handing the stack of records back to Dave, he continues, trying his best to keep his cool, “What else is up there? I'll spare you the indignity of looking like a sad, prickish, underpaid butler.”

“Mostly just big band shit,” Dave shrugs. Even with his back turned, the blush on his cheeks is apparent. “What're you looking for?”

“Who fucking knows? I'm just here to browse. Look, douchebag, let's just go to the café.”

There's a noticeable release of tension, and an audible sigh of relief, as Dave responds, “Shit. That sounds pretty fuckin' nice.”

“C'mon, then, Strider.” With a roll of his eyes and a push of his wheels, Karkat backs out of the aisle and leads Dave to the café next door.

 

While his conversational partner ignores him, favoring the crossword puzzle in today's newspaper,  **DAVE STRIDER** finds himself contemplating the events that have unfolded over the past week. He hates to admit it, but he's starting to warm up to Karkat. As he'd found in the beginning, when they'd first met, there's something strangely attractive to his prickly demeanor. He's a man unafraid to wear his heart on his sleeve, and that's a trait Dave has always admired, seeing as the only emotions he can truly express are anger and nervousness.  And, beyond that, the heart Karkat wears on his sleeve is undoubtedly one of gold—grouchy, vaguely unapproachable, and cynical gold, but gold nonetheless. And, what of his own? Dave's most optimistic guess would be that his heart might scrape by as a shitty, low-grade bronze.

Not that Dave  _likes_ Karkat. Sure, maybe he's gained a new friend, but there's nothing more. There can't be anything more. If Bro were to find out...

A flicker of light, which filters through the blinds over the front window of the café, catches Karkat's eyes. The golden flecks briefly shimmer; then, they return to their usual solid grey.

A friend, Dave reassures himself. Karkat Vantas is a friend, and nothing more.

* * *

\-- twinArmageddons [TA] began pestering carcinoGeneticist [CG] at 23:54! --

TA: hey wa22up dude?

CG: Sollux, we both know you'd never pester me out of the blue for some unrelated bullshit small talk. What is it?

TA: aw.  
TA: come on, kk. we're be2t bud2. what do you mean ii can't ju2t randomly pe2ter you?

CG: I'm tired, Sollux. What is it?

TA: fiine! ii admiit iit!  
TA: ii've moved dorm2. iit wa2n't you, except iit kiind of wa2.

CG: ...

TA: 2ee, aradiia'2 roommate moved out, 2o now ii can move iin!  
TA: no hard feeliing2, riight?

CG: Totally not! I'll just have to find a new goddamned roommate by tomorrow!

TA: gee2e. 2orry. diidn't know you'd have two do that.  
TA: why don't you a2k that dave guy?

CG: Ha ha. Very funny.

TA: no hard feeliing2?

CG: I hate to say it, but no. I get it. Go have fun fucking your hot girlfriend, Sollux.

TA: awe2ome! you're the be2t, kk.

CG: Yup. Guess I fucking am.

\-- carcinoGeneticist [CG] ceased pestering twinArmageddons [TA] at 00:09! --

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TL;DR of the Sollux pesterlog: Sollux is moving out of the dorm with Karkat to move in with Aradia. Great news is that this is a fanfiction, and that means Karkat has to find _someone_ to room with before they randomly assign him a new roommate. Damn. I wonder who it would be. Hmmmmm.


	25. I'm Looking Through You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **[I'm Looking Through You](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gH6i9JAdJrQ)** by The Beatles, from _Rubber Soul_ (1964)

The Sunday before Halloween of this particular and decidedly unknown school year is marked by various characteristics. The weather, at least in the area immediately surrounding the college town of Skaia, is gorgeous. The skies are clear, the air is crisp, and the breeze is gentle. (Acknowledging that some might object to this description, it should be noted that a particular Karkat Vantas finds that the weather is just a tad too cold for his liking.) The overall atmosphere is one of peace and serenity. People are walking their dogs, jogging, and engaging in generally enjoyable activities. This atmosphere does not, however, extend to some of our established protagonists, as one might assume from a Pesterchum exchange taking place.

\-- ectoBiologist [EB] began pestering turntechGodhead [TG] at 09:17! --

EB: hey! so, uh, do you happen to know someone with a black subaru tribeca?

TG: oh my god

EB: oh this isn't good.  
EB: handicap license plate?

TG: oh my fuckin god john  
TG: please don't tell me you're about to say what i fuckin think you're about to say

EB: do you know the car, dave? that's what i'm asking.

TG: dude  
TG: egbert  
TG: what did you just do

EB: look, dad taught me how to drive a sedan, not an suv.

TG: john

EB: okay, so i guess you don't know the car. whoever owns the car, they might want to call their insurance company. there's also some sort of wonky black thing sticking out of the side of the passenger side back door. i think i bent that a little.

TG: where are you dumbass

EB: carlos' sombrero stop. the truck stop a few miles from school. where are you?

TG: staring at what you just did to my drummer's car  
TG: dude you just fuckin rammed into karkat's car

EB: he can afford a new one easy, can't he?

TG: that's a custom car you fuckin twit

EB: oh you mean like it's really expensive for a tribeca?

TG: john my sweet innocent dumpster fire what i'm trying to say is that karkat physically cannot drive another car without modifications  
TG: you've just stranded my ass in the middle of nowhere at a fuckin taco bell style faux mexican truck stop

EB: well why the heck are you at a truckstop anyhow?

TG: people have to eat egbert  
TG: what the fuck were you doing

EB: pidge had to piss

TG: well i think you might want to get out of the car and start calling your insurance company  
TG: also your dad because this is gonna be some fucked up shit more fucked up that that one time i sneaked out of bro's apartment and spent a whole night doing nothing but indulging in some good old fashioned underage drinking

\-- turntechGodhead [TG] ceased pestering ectoBiologist [EB] at 09:32! --

The buzz of the closing chat exchange is immediately followed by a predictable shout, “WHAT HAPPENED TO MY FUCKING CAR!?”

 

While he isn't necessarily devastated over the car, itself,  **KARKAT VANTAS** is understandably pissed about the fact that his car has been rendered the exact thing it was made to not be: inaccessible. The motorized ramp has been bent to the point of no return, and the front driver's side door has been caved in by a now-half-yellow bollard. So far, his only consolation is that he isn't  _too_ far from the college (perhaps, at maximum, a ten minute drive) and that, after sending Dave in to check, it has been deemed that the car's engine still functions. Not that any of this really matters, as he sits in the middle of a now-crowded truck stop, trying to avoid pity-laden gazes, and surrounded by both his and Dave's luggage.

Now, feasibly, someone else, like Dave, could drive this car. It looks like shit, but it still functions. Were it not for the myriad of modifications—including, but not limited to, an automatic ramp (now busted), repositioning of the controls (rendering the car confusing as hell for anyone  _but_ Karkat to drive), and a raised roof (miraculously mostly intact, save for the dent near the driver's door)—all of the damage would have been purely cosmetic. And, perhaps, that's what makes this seemingly minor accident sting even more.

“I told you not to pull in so close to the other car, you know,” mutters Pidge.

John, still surprisingly calm about the whole affair, shrugs. “I mean, it's already happened. Uh... Is there anything I can do to help you guys?”

“I'd say you could drive us to campus once the incident report is filed,” Karkat supplies, all while glancing at the packed, older (likely early 2000's, by his estimates) Buick. (As an aside, and of, really, no matter of importance beyond narrative specificity, it just so happens that the barely damaged offending vehicle is a mid-2000's Buick Enclave.) “Obviously, that won't exactly work.”

“I mean... Why not? Hunk'd be happy to help you into the car,” is John's typically upbeat reply.

And, as if to reinforce this suggestion, an already flustered-looking Hunk makes an awkward attempt at a wave.

“What's in your head, Egbert? Wet napkins? Tepid, stale tea? Fucking dry mud!?” Karkat declares, inching closer, until the footplates of his chair dig into John's shins, “Look at the goddamned car! Not even the most adept Tetris player could fit my chair into that hideous mess!”

Despite Dave's protests, in the form of a cutting motion across his neck, John continues to suggest solutions to the predicament. “I'll drive you back to campus, and I'll come back for the chair.”

“Fine!” Karkat's reply is accompanied with a tone not unlike someone about to slit a stranger's throat, “Wonderful! Let me just park my thousand-dollar wheelchair in the middle of a truck stop, and hope no one steals it!”

John opens his mouth to respond, only to be interrupted by Pidge. “Hey, buddy, pal, friend. You're doing  _really_ badly right now.” She clears her throat, steps forward, and eyes over Karkat before offering her hand out. When this gesture is turned down, through absolute inaction on Karkat's part, she clears her throat. After gently shoving John aside, she makes an attempt at clearing the air. “Unlike John, I'm going to say that you're right that my mom's car won't fit you, my two idiotic friends over there—” she gestures vaguely to John and Hunk “—Dave,  _and_ a wheelchair. I think I have a solution that will work for everyone, though.”

“Well, you're already more reasonable than the dumbass, who rammed my car into a fucking concrete post, so shoot. What's the idea?” Though his words are open, Karkat's posture remains closed. He's angled himself slightly away from Pidge's group, and his arms are stubbornly crossed over his chest.

“Do you know of Shi— Uh. Professor Shirogane?”

“We're in the same class, Pidge,” Karkat sighs.

“Great! Well, he lives nearby. He's got a nice car. A BMW X4, I think—”

For a brief moment, Hunk cuts into the discussion, “Yup! X4!”

“Great!” Pidge offers a small smile, one that's as sincere as it is awkward. “So, he's got a compact SUV, basically. I'll call him, he can pick up you and Dave, and we're all good, right?”

“And what about my car?”

“Okay. Yeah, that,” Pidge laughs, though it's obviously strained. She rubs the back of her neck with one hand and fiddles with her glasses with the other. “Yeah, that's something you'll have to talk to insurance about.”

A pause. A tense silence descends upon the group, as well as the small crowd watching the entire affair unfold. After a few minutes of this, Karkat nods. He offers out his hand, which Pidge shakes eagerly, before saying, albeit quite reluctantly, “Deal.”

“Awesome! Fantastic! So, it's all settled!” Against all odds, and any sense of  _common sense_ , she concludes by taking out her phone. “By the way, would you and Dave mind taking a selfie with Hunk and I? It's going to piss Keith off  _so much_ that we just rear ended his musical idols.”

The two men—Karkat and Dave—exchange bewildered glances. Nevertheless, both decide that no harm can come from agreeing. The photo is taken, and the group disperses, waiting in their own little groups until the police come to file an incident report.

* * *

By the time an admittedly bemused, but outwardly serious **TAKASHI SHIROGANE** arrives on the scene, the damaged Subaru has been taken away, and the police have already left. Judging by his watch, which means subtracting fifteen minutes from the time it's actually displaying, it's around 11:30. As he would for any accident he happened to come across, he makes sure everyone is okay. Once it's settled that the only injuries are to pride and interpersonal relationships, he sets about getting both of the bewildered young men into his car.

And, by 12:00, the three are on the road.

“Strange meeting you here, Karkat,” Shiro comments, trying to break the tension.

In the back seat, Karkat runs his fingers through his hair. A nervous cough. A wry glance, first to the rearview mirror, then to the floor. “Yeah. Same, Professor.”

“We're not in class, you know.” Shiro can't help but laugh at the formality. “You can just call me Shiro. Or Takashi. Whichever you want.”

“I'd rather not,” mumbles Karkat.

“Fair enough. Glad no one was hurt.”

“Same,” Dave supplies, seemingly as eager as Shiro to make some sort of distraction from the events that have just occurred. “You're a comp sci teacher, right, Shiro?”

“Yup.” Glancing in his rearview mirror, Shiro can't help but think of the similarities between Karkat and another, brooding, black-haired young man. “Have either of you met Keith? He's my brother. He's a really big fan of your band, actually.”

“Yeah, I've signed an autograph for him.”

“Is he looking for a roommate?”

“Huh?” Karkat's reply startles Shiro. After a brief moment of recovery, he shakes his head. “No, sorry. He's rooming with his boyfriend, Lance. Why? You need a roommate, Karkat?”

“Yeah. The useless son of a— I mean. Uh. My last one bailed. By campus housing rules, I need to pick someone else or risk a random assignment. The terms of my housing waiver also say that I'll get free housing, but only if I share a room with another student.”

At this point, Shiro sees where the conversation is going. He bites his lip, smirks, and keeps quiet.

“Does the other roommate also get free shit?” Dave, unlike Karkat, is unaffected by the presence of an authority figure. Much like Pidge, Shiro notes, he'll cuss in front of anyone.

“I mean... The terms are that my roommate would replace hired help, since the school would have to pay for a caretaker.” The closer to the end of his statement he gets, the softer Karkat's voice is. At the conclusion, it's little more than a gravelly, harsh whisper.

Dave counters with a surprisingly diplomatic statement. “Since when do you need a caretaker?”

“Since I registered as a handicap student, you damned stick in the mud. And, to answer your question, yes. Whatever poor sucker gets stuck in my dorm with me gets free housing.”

“Shit fuckin' damn, dude, I'll do it!” Dave volunteers.

Shiro, meanwhile, finds it increasingly difficult to refrain from busting out into an uproarious laugh. He's seen this before; he's lived it. He knows what's happening between these two, even if they don't.

“Oh, sweet mother of God, you will _not_ room with me.”

“You want some random fuck-knows-who, then, dude?” There's a cocky, shit-eating grin on Dave's face. He knows exactly what he's doing.

And, it seems, so does Karkat, judging by his resigned sigh. Nonetheless, he relents. “Fine. Just don't be an absolute flaming dick about it, okay?”

“Free housing, here I come. Yee-fuckin'-haw.”

“Will you quit cursing like a sailor in front of my comp sci professor, you dimwit?” Karkat hisses.

Dave shrugs. He flashes a wry smile in Karkat's direction. “Oh, I bet Shiro up there's heard way worse than whatever sort of bullshit I'm spewin’.”

“Pretty much, yeah,” chimes Shiro.

“See? Everything's fine, dude.”

As Karkat buries his face in his hands, Shiro pulls into the school parking lot. He helps the pair gather their things, and watches, smirking, as they depart, still bickering awkwardly between themselves.

* * *

\-- installWizard [IW] began pestering mulletLover [ML] at 16:12! --

IW: hey so guess who was in a car that rear-ended your favorite band leader and his new drummer?  
IW: let me help you guess!

\-- installWizard [IW] sent a photo! --

ML: Dude, what the literal fuck!? You rear-ended dave strider?  
ML: And then you convinced them to take a photo with you?

IW: easy. i asked.

ML: ...I hate you, pidge.

IW: oh i know. uwu

\-- installWizard [IW] ceased pestering mulletLover [ML] at 16:29! --


	26. Particles of the Universe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Particles of the Universe](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9lFh3dRnrVM) from _Beasts of the Southern Wild_ (2012)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for those of you in a jazzier mood, feel free to hit up [**the l.a. noire soundtrack**](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=O9jwLX3vSSU). this chapter is kinda weird, i guess. it's sort of covering all of the main ships. some music and quotes from a book are mentioned in the chapter, and they're all listed at the bottom. yes, i just cited something chicago style in a fucking fanfiction. sue me. eh. fuck it. have a bonus chapter.

Karkat's dorm room is exactly what **DAVE STRIDER** would have expected from him. The floor is immaculate, yet every available surface on his side is stacked high with discarded clothes and crumpled notes. Oddly enough, on Monday, as he moves his things in (and while John allows Vriska in as his new roommate), Dave is surprised to find an envelope on the floor. Inside, he finds a note, signed by a certain Keith Kogane, apologizing for what has happened, as well as a pair of sturdy fingerless leather gloves. He delivers then to Karkat, as indicated in the note, who immediately begins muttering about some “goddamned relief” from “pushing my own ass around everywhere”.

Ground rules are established. The floor must be clear of all clutter, especially near the bathroom entry and the exit. Mornings begin at 5:00 AM, though Dave doesn’t necessarily have to wake up then, and physiotherapy is every other week. (As his new roommate, and currently the only one of his friends with a readily available car, Dave gets he honor of taking him to these.) Preparations for bed begin at 9:30 on weekdays, and 10:30 on weekends. It’s a wide array of strangely specific requirements and rules, but Dave figures there must be a reason for them.

And, by the time his first night with his new roommate is drawing to a close, Dave has come to understand all of the rules except for one, which he’s now only beginning to grasp.

“Strider!”

The voice shakes Dave from his introversion. Drawing his attentions away from his riveting game of Minesweeper, he turns towards Karkat.

The other man is sitting in his bed, which just so happens to be the lower bunk. Rimless, silver-armed reading glasses are perched on the bridge of his nose, and a psychology textbook rests in his lap. Both of his hands are encased in hard plastic splints, as are his ankles. His left leg is stretched out, while his right is slightly bent at the knee. “It’s getting late.”

“It’s ten,” counters Dave.

“Yeah? And I’m going to bed in half a fucking hour. If you’re going to insist on staying up, close the curtains around my bunk.”

“Nerd,” Dave can’t help but scoff, “You have curtains around your bed?”

“Unlike your stupid, healthy ass, I actually need sleep. Besides, I’m tired. It’s kind of been a fucking hellscape for me lately, if you haven’t noticed.”

“Point taken. You need anything?” Despite an outwardly unaffected demeanor, Dave finds curiosity getting the best of him.

“I’m fine. I’m just letting you know I’m going to sleep soon.” Karkat pauses. He leans over, to his bedside table, and fiddles with his phone. “Do you listen to classical? I play it at night. It keeps me from thinking too much.”

“Not really, but you can go ‘head and play it. I don’t give a fuck.”

A nod. A click. Karkat lays back down, wiggles himself into a comfortable position on his back, and sighs. “Congrats, then, I hope you enjoy Vivaldi.”

 

Despite being in bed, and having been in bed for the past three hours, Dave can’t sleep. He’s too antsy. His mind is racing, and the repetitive Vivaldi playlist isn’t helping; the stupid opera currently playing _really_ isn't helping. 1 He’s tried playing his own music, through headphones, of course, and he’s tried to distract himself. But, neither tactic did much good. He’s still wide awake, and he finds himself compelled to do something. So, as quietly as possible, he slides out of bed, climbs down from the top bunk, and throws on some sweatpants, and slips into an overcoat. Then, he creeps outside, into the hallway. He wanders outside, into the darkness of night, and follows the streetlights, until they lead him to the all-hours study room.

Few people are inside. Those that are aren’t interested in the wandering blond. This means it’s easy pickings for Dave, who makes short work of raiding the snack fridge. A swipe of his student card grants him his choice of two automatically dispensed snacks from the vending machine, as well as a choose of machine-brewed beverage. He settles for plain chips and a hot chocolate.

“Dave!” The voice is familiar, but it takes a few moments for Dave to recognize it as Rose’s. “You’re up late.”

“And you aren’t?” he counters, smirking.

Rose shrugs. “We both know I have no sleeping schedule. I understand you’re rooming with Karkat, now.”

“Yeah. It’s pretty chill. I don’t really do much to earn the free dorm, but I guess I ain’t about to complain about that, huh?”

“Don't start getting on my case 'bout that shit, Lalonde,” grumbles Dave. He lights a cigarette, briefly pausing as the warmth of the flame hits his cupped right hand. “It's fine. It's a thing. He's a decent roommate. Not too fuckin’ noisy or nosy, like John was. And he goes to bed at a decent time, which I s’pose it nice. Hasn't asked me to do much for him so far, either.”

“But you get free room and board,” Rose counters, turning herself away from the smoke spewing from Dave's nostrils, “Jesus, Dave, put that shit out.”

A low growl comes from Dave's throat, though he quietly crushes the cigarette beneath the heel of his shoe. Not wanting to litter everywhere, he also takes a moment to pick it up and place it in his pocket. “Yeah, I guess I'll earn that at some point.”

“I suppose you will.” At this point, Rose offers a casual wave. “I'll be taking my leave, now. It's been lovely speaking to you, David.”

“Yeah.” Pulling the crushed cigarette from his pocket, Dave begins to tug it back into shape, so that he can relight it. “Whatever, Rose.”

* * *

While his plans _had_ revolved around taking a nice walk around campus, Tuesday's downpour proves to be a thorn in the paw of a particular **KEITH KOGANE** 's plans. Instead of sketching some of the local plant life, as he had intended, he finds himself trapped in his dorm room, listening to the sounds of rumbling thunder mixed with the screams of virtual enemies being ruthlessly murdered by his boyfriend. “Damn, Lance, what are you playing?” he finally asks, tired of the commotion.

“Doom.” Lance shrugs.

“Don't you have homework?”

“Sure.” There's a soft laugh behind the words, and it manages to send a shiver down Keith's spine. Lance pauses the game, rises to his feet, and comes to sit at the end of Keith's bed. “What're you doing?”

Drawing his sketchbook closer to his chest, and hunching over it even more, Keith denies any accusations that his is doing exactly what he is doing, “Nothing. Doesn't matter, now, since you  _fucking moved_.”

“Oh. You were drawing me?”

“ _Was_ drawing you, stupid.” A glance at his sketchbook reveals a rendering half-done—Lance's back, his figure outlined by the glow of his television set. The hair has only been roughly outlined, with only about half of it fully rendered. “It's dead in the water, now, Sanchez.”

“Fair enough.” There's a brief moment of hesitation, then, slowly, Lance moves to look at the page. He seems to like what he sees, as he offers an approving nod. “You're a good artists, dude. And, what, you're majoring in—?”

“Jesus Christ. My boyfriend doesn't even know what I'm majoring in,” grumbles Keith, his voice dripping with emphatically fake animosity. “I've told you before, Lance, I just do art for fun. It's not what I want to do forever.”

“Well, what  _do_ you want to do forever?” There's a playful lilt in Lance's voice, and a wild spark in his eye. Tanned skin captures harsh artificial lighting, and a wide grin sets the mood.

Unable to resist, Keith grabs onto Lance's shoulder. He wrestles him, until he's underneath him, and returns with his own smirk. “What do you think?”

* * *

\-- tipsyGnostalgic [TG] responded to permanent group chat SKAIA RAINBOW ALLIANCE at 11:30! --

TG: wassup everyone!? As we said in the last memo, this week there's going to be a special saturday meeting! we'll be having a Halloween party, so be sure 2 bring ur costume! food will be provided and we're having a contest! best solo costume and best couple costume get a little surprise baggy with fun stuff inside! be sure to come and ur welcome to bring ur friends! meeting starts at 5 and ends at 8! that's PM not AM! hope to see u all there! :D

UU: the sUrprise goody bags have lots of candy!

TG: Shhh! They're not supposed to know yet! ;)

* * *

Having failed to fall asleep until 5:30 or so, **DAVE STRIDER** sleeps in. He misses his first class. Then, his second. By the time he finally rouses from his fitful slumber, which was marked by his usual nightmares, he finds that his roommate has vacated the dorm. A note has been taped to the bathroom door. It's written in messy grey pencil, with smudges covering the page.

Have been informed of some sort of fuck-up with the dorm plumbing.  
Don't use the shower until you get an email saying you can.  
Broken piece of shit is spewing sewer water.

With the dorm's music player now open for business, Dave decides to plug in some of his own music.2 After wiring up his phone, he begins getting ready. While he's already missed his classes, he figures he still has time to at least try and do some make up work. And, at the very least, he needs to get a few gigs in line. His pockets are running dry.

 _Born to be dead, died in vain,_  
_Super-destructive, you were hooked on pain,_  
_And though your music lingers on,_  
_Well, all of us are glad you're gone._

As he goes about his daily routine, he can't help but catch glimpses of his roommate's life. It's not as if he's necessarily _trying_ to snoop on Karkat. There'd be no real point to that, after all. He's not interested in his roommate's life. But, at the same time, living so closely with a person does tend to air more intimate details of their life rather quickly.

Unlike most dorms, there are two sinks in the dorm bathroom. (Normally, there's a singular, shared sink outside of the bathroom.) While Dave has kept his sparse, stocking it only with absolute essentials, such as shaving supplies, a toothbrush, and some toothpaste, Karkat's is absolutely littered with a jumble of supplies. Most of these items are empty or half-filled pill bottles. As Dave brushes his teeth, he absentmindedly reads the labels. He neither knows nor wishes to know the specifics of most of the medications, though he recognizes the basic functions of a small selection. The largest of the bottles are Prednisone and something that, purely from random online advertisements, Dave recognizes as a medication for osteoporosis. According to the usage instructions on some of the bottles, some are also for cardiac problems, though that's not a surprising development.

 _If I could live my life has as worthlessly as you,_  
_I'm convinced that I'd wind up burning, too._

Back in the main dorm room, having at least made himself to look mildly presentable, Dave gathers some things to take with him to the dining hall. He tosses some notebooks into his bag; his wallet, into his pocket; his keys, onto the carabiner hooked to one of his belt loops; and, finally, his shades are slipped into place. As he moves about, however, he keeps uncovering odds and ends from Karkat.

Stray shoes are a sporadic find. The soles of the left foot are always significantly more worn down than the right. Ripped out notebook pages, covered in scrawled out notes and reminders, are littered throughout the space. But, of all the odd finds, Dave finds himself pausing on one: a copy of the photo from his room, with Karkat holding the drama club trophy. It's strange to see the smiling face in the image, and to reconcile it with the Karkat he knows. Is the grinning child even the same person as the man he knows? Out of curiosity, Dave flips the photo over, and finds a note written on the back. It's too neat to be Karkat's writing; perhaps, Dave thinks, one of his parents wrote it.

Karkat wins drama camp award! June 20—

The rest of the date has been smudged beyond recognition.

After a few more seconds of studying the photo, Dave places it back where it belongs, beneath a crab-shaped magnet on the mini fridge in the middle of the room.

* * *

Sprawled out on her back, atop the jade green sheets of the top bunk, **KANAYA MARYAM** breathes a long sigh. She absentmindedly toys with some of her hair, now that it's free from the scarf, and reads from the book propped up on her stomach. “The girl had syphilis, scrofula, lung fever, and the Nine Sages alone knew what else, but what had destroyed her spirit was enslavement to opium.” 3 A snort of laughter escapes her, and she slams the book shut. “I think that this girl might have had a bad time, don't you, Rose?”

From her spot, in the bottom bunk (where both women normally slept together, anyhow), Rose, too, laughs. “I would imagine that to be true. She certainly isn't the spriest of individuals. Is she, perhaps, dead?”

“Let me check.” Reopening the book, Kanaya scans the section she'd read. She rolls her eyes. “Supposedly not. She was treated in Nagisaki, so the book says, and made it to a secluded religious settlement.”

“And, remind me, this takes place in—?”

“Eighteenth century Japan, during the _Sakoku_ period,” Kanaya supplies.

“Oh, well, I believe this poor woman might soon be deceased! What are your thoughts, Kan?”

Settling back down, and preparing to resume her assigned reading of this strange novel, Kanaya rolls her eyes. “I believe you might be on to something, Rose. As you always are.”

“You flatter me.”

“Of course.”

After this, a comfortable silence settles in the room. The two women resume their activities, perfectly happy to exist both together and apart from one another. Each is content with the knowledge that the other is nearby, yet enjoys the freedom of doing her own thing, unafraid of interruption from the other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Music and shit mentioned in the chapter: 1, [**Vivaldi's _Ottone in Villa_**](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XZr00s3edWQ) / 2. [**Paul William's _Hell of It_**](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Vuikvl7zt3E) / 3. Mitchell, David. _The Thousand Autumns of Jacob de Zoet_. New York City, NY: Random House, 2014. 213.


	27. The Thing That Made You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **[The Thing that Made You](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CInQYmQCDnw)** from _Beasts of the Southern Wild_ (2012)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm putting the thanks for reading here so i can cite music mentioned in this chapter! this is a dave-centric one.

If he was being completely honest, **DAVE STRIDER** would say that he doesn't know what's worse: the outrageous crooning of some long-dead bastard singing about the devil and the ocean, or Karkat's pointless, obnoxious, but stupidly well-meaning ramblings. 1 He's been listening to both these academic lectures and the asinine stylings of many a dead jazz musician for the past three hours, and he's about to absolutely lose his mind. It's enough to drive any man insane, but it's more than enough to have possibly driven Dave Strider up the wall. No, scratch that. He's not up the wall; he's burst clear through the ceiling, and is now on his way to launching straight through earth's atmosphere.

“Yeah, so, the _Salon_ was the main venue for displaying art in France for most of the seventeenth through the nineteenth centuries...” Karkat rambles, still engrossed in his notes.

“Jesus, fuck, do you do anything but study, you fuckin’ nerd?” Dave groans.

Karkat pauses. He looks up, cocks his head to the side, and raises a brow. “I mean, that's what I'm here to do. I'm not shilling out absurd amounts of money to get drunk and party. I could do that for a lot, lot cheaper elsewhere.”

“Like Hooters?” smirks Dave.

Another pause. A beat. Karkat pinches the bridge of his nose. “I'm going to pretend I didn't just hear that.” Backing away from his desk, he moves to the mini fridge. From the upper freezer section, he pulls an ice pack, which he haphazardly wraps in the hood of his sweatshirt and rests against the base of his neck. “Fine, then. I'll humor you. I don't have the slightest of fuck-witted ideas why I'm doing this, but I'll let you try. Shoot, you blunderbastard. What _should_ I be doing?”

“Well, Rainbow Alliance is having a Halloween party.” While there's a tiny fragment of Dave that's interested in attending the party (and only for the promise of free food), he doesn't really care. He could take or leave the festive event, but, if it makes Karkat act less like a stuck-up bookworm, he'll take it. “Bring a costume, win a prize. That sort of thing.”

“Yeah, I saw that chat message. And I'm not interested.” With one hand busy holding the ice pack to his neck, Karkat ends up awkwardly crab-walking his wheelchair back to his desk, alternating which wheel he pushes with his left hand. When Dave rises, as if to help, he settles the matter with a pointed glare. “Not that I think you'd give a flying fuck, anyhow. You're straight, supposedly. But, besides that, I have a whole clusterfuck of things I could be doing that don't involved embarrassing myself.”

“Halloween is the national holiday for embarrassing yourself. You didn't know that?”

“Yeah, well, I can do that by myself. I don't need other people gawking at me while I do it. I stopped giving a fuck about Halloween when it was obvious I couldn't make it far enough to get any decent amount of candy, anyhow.” There's a pause. The music changes, to a lovely, brass-tinged song.2 The shift grabs Karkat's attention, and he briefly diverts his attentions away from what he was about to say. He recovers quickly, though, far quicker than Dave could have. “What, do you want to go?”

“Not really,” Dave shrugs.

“Okay. Then why, exactly, do you think _I_ would want to go?”

“Dunno. Meet someone. Get some good sex. Who knows?”

“My God, you're disgusting. Every word that comes out of your mouth just inches me closer to my inevitable death. If I stay with you the rest of the year, I might just be dead before twenty! An absolutely fuck-mazing achievement! I don't _want_ to go around fucking people at random. Middle school was stupid enough.”

“Jesus.” As rude as it sounds, Dave honestly can't imagine Karkat being a Casanova, and that's for a myriad of reasons. Chief among these is the fact that he's a bumbling social nightmare. (Not that Dave, himself, is any better.) “ _You_ were the middle school Rasputin?”

“Yes, I was Skaia's greatest love machine. Surprisingly, some people are more open-minded about the ideal human body than—”

“I mean you're a fuckin’ dork, dude. I mean, I'll be real,” Dave sighs. He diverts his gaze, choosing to focus on the floor. “You're pretty fuckin’ nice to look at, really.”

“That's a pretty gay thing to say.” Karkat smirks. “Fine, so, let's say I hypothetically decide to go to the stupid little party. What would you be doing? And—AH! I'm not done, Strider. Shut it. Might I remind you that the terms of the dorm arrangement means that you'd have to be available for me, should I have some sort of medical problem.”

“Guess I'd be at the party, then. No big deal.”

Karkat nods. He tosses aside his ice pack, allowing it to land on a paper plate on his desk, before staring expectantly at his conversational partner. He folds his arms across his chest. “And you'd be dressed as...?”

“A greaser, something just as cool as I am.”

“Exactly as shallow as I'd expect from you, Dave. Nice.” A huff of exertion escapes Karkat, as he pulls himself to his feet. Leaning most of his weight against the frame of the bed, he shuffles over, only to freeze halfway through. He seems to make a few attempts to move his left leg, which is frozen in place. The knee is slightly bent, and his foot hovers about an inch off the ground. “Damn. Fuck. Strider, you clueless bastard!”

“What the fuck do you want me to do!?” Dave inches closer, yet he refrains from actually laying a hand on Karkat. “What am I _doing_?”

“FIGURE IT OUT, STUPID!”

“I'm not a certified nurse, you know.”

“I understand, but—” before Karkat finishes, the other knee gives out. He manages to hang onto the post long enough to keep the fall semi-controlled, but it still ends with a painful-looking slam.The right knee hits the ground first, buckling with a loud pop, before he stops himself. “Fuck.”

Finally beginning to understand his role, Dave reaches out.

Karkat swiftly bats his hands away. “Wait. Wait one fucking second. I...” His eyes slide closed, and a pained yelp escapes him as he tries to rise. “Fine. Fuck. Fuck you, Strider. Fuck you, and your incompetent load of shit. Just— JESUS CHRIST.” The last words escape him as Dave, with his arms beneath his armpits, lifts him to his feet. Perhaps involuntarily, he grabs onto Dave's arm. It's a firm, circulation-cutting vise, like a painfully firm handshake. “Stop. Stop. STOP, DAMMIT. YOU DENSE MOTHERFUCKER. STOP!”

Dave, already thoroughly flustered, comes to a stuttering halt. He looks over, to the man leaning against him, and frowns. “What?”

“Just put me down.” The voice doesn't seem to come from the same person, despite the fact that it is, indeed, Karkat's. It's soft, strained, and hoarse. “Please. Just... Ugh.” As he's lowered to the floor, he stretches his right leg out in front of him. He massages his knee between his thumbs, wincing repeatedly as he does so. “Shit.”

“You can feel that?” Dave says, unsure of exactly what to say. Sweat begins to drip down his face.

A nod. “I get the special privilege of feeling everything that happens to my stupid body, you fuck-mongering bastard.”

“Sorry...”

“It's not your fault. I should have said more. If I wasn't such a proud piece of shit, I'd have avoided this altogether. But, hey, hindsight is twenty-fucking-twenty, right? I—SHIT.” His entire body shudders. His back arches upward, at the shoulders, and he bares his teeth. “Get my phone. It's on the desk. I'll need my knee brace from home.”

Still deathly silent, Dave does as he's told. As it stands, he's already fucked up twice. In his mind, that's two failures too many. Hell, one failure is a failure too many. “W-what... What'm I doin’?”

“Ace bandages should be in the drawer of my desk.” As Dave begins scrounging for the supplies, Karkat continues. He places a pillow beneath his knee and scoots, so that he's leaning against the bed. “Ice pack's in the freezer. Look, Dave, I love seeing you drop that stupid cool kid act, but not like this. It's not your fault. I should really have someone qualified here, but I don't.”

After a few moments, Dave returns. He hands over what he's been instructed to gather.

Karkat, meanwhile, sets about treating himself. The ease and speed of his motions indicates that this isn't the first time this has happened. His knee is wrapped within half a minute, and the ice is in place shortly thereafter. Then, much to Dave's chagrin, he grabs his hand. Grey eyes meet red, and a surprisingly soft look crosses the normally cross man's face. “Dave, it's fine. I shouldn't have yelled at you. Hey. Hey, dumbass. Look here. Breathe in. Good. Out.”

Only now does Dave realize how fast his breathing had been. He recognizes his racing heart, and his shaking hands. And, for some reason, there's a calming effect to being told what to do. Normally, when things like this happened, his brother would just lock him in his room...

“Great. Awesome. Hey. Hey, Strider. Look back here.”

Dave obeys, though he keeps his gaze away from Karkat's eyes. Instead, he focuses on the bedding, just to the right of his face. Otherwise, he finds his heart racing again, albeit not unpleasantly. And, of all the things frightening him right now, the mere fact that looking at another man makes him feel so at ease is the only thing he can definitively identify as a stressor. He also manages to slip his hand out of Karkat's grasp.

“There. You're fine. Look, I know I'm a loud bastard, but I won't hurt you, Strider. There are better people for me to go after. My mom's on the way with the brace, and everything's fine.”

A slow nod. A long sigh. Dave takes a step back, and he stares pointedly at the floor. “What else do I need to do?”

“Nothing, you did fine. You're freaked out, I fucking get it. Go.”

“What?”

“I've fucked up my knees more than enough times in my life. I'm fine. Go. Get some lunch or something. You'll feel better after that. Okay?” There's an earnest, honest kindness in Karkat's voice. It's a tone Dave has rarely heard being directed at him, and it's certainly one of only a handful of times that a good deed was done on his behalf without something being expected in return.

As a whole, the entire situation unnerves him. There's a building sense of panic in the pit of Dave's stomach. He needs to leave. He needs to leave before _he_ gets home. No...

“I'll be fine, dumbass. Go.”

After only a brief moment of thought, Dave nods. He turns, and sprints for the door. Once outside, he collapses, leaning his weight against the wall, and burying his face in his hands. A weight lifts off of his chest, while a twisting, writhing sensation burrows into his stomach.

* * *

\-- turntechGodhead [TG] began pestering tentacleTherapist [TT] at 16:02! --

TG: how did you know you liked kanaya

TT: David, have you *seen* Kanaya?

TG: look we both know and acknowledge with all our fucking tiny shriveled little raisin hearts that kanaya is a gorgeous human being but other than that  
TG: what made you realize you like kanaya

TT: I liked her?

TG: okay thanks fuckin captain obvious miss smug woman person what was that like

TT: I guess it was just a really, really nice sensation. She made me feel warm and safe. There was the stupid, clichéed fluttering in my stomach, too. Why are you asking, Dave?  
TT: Dave?  
TT: Dave, are you okay?

TG: fuck

TT: David.  
TT: Are you okay? Is everything alright?

TG: bro is gonna fuckin kill me

TT: David?

TG: oh god  
TG: i think i might have a crush

TT: Wonderful! Who is it!?

TG: karkat

TT: I mean, everyone saw this coming, David.

TG: yeah well I FUCKING DIDN'T

\-- turntechGodhead [TG] ceased pestering tentacleTherapist [TT] at 16:16! --

* * *

\-- tentacleTherapist [TT] began pestering carcinoGeneticist [CG] at 16:17! --

TT: Hello, Karkat. I hate to ask you to do this, but it seems my dear brother has had a bit of a sexuality crisis. Have you seen him?

CG: First of all, I haven't seen him. I'm also on the floor of my dorm, with a torn meniscus, and more than a little fucking drugged with painkillers. What do you want?

TT: Oh. I'm sorry to hear that. You haven't seen him at all?

CG: Not at all. I'll try and look for him, okay?

TT: You don't have to do that.

CG: I have a feeling I might have caused this mess, so I think I'll take it upon myself to solve this clusterfuck.

\-- carcinoGeneticist [CG] ceased pestering tentacleTherapist [TT] at 16:30! --

* * *

\-- carcinoGeneticist [CG] began pestering turntechGodhead [TG] at 16:33! --

CG: Hey, Dave, Rose is looking for you. She's pretty fucking worried. I'd contact her as soon as you can.

\-- TG is an idle chum! --

CG: Oh goddammit. Dave, where the fuck are you?  
CG: Dave?  
CG: Look, dumbass, not to sound like I actually care about your annoying ass, but I'm getting worried. It's starting to get dark out.  
CG: Dave?  
CG: Hello?

TG: i'm fine  
TG: don't want to talk about it

CG: And where the fuck are you?

TG: motel down the street

CG: Seriously? Fucking seriously?

\-- turntechGodhead [TG] ceased pestering carcinoGeneticist [CG] at 22:01! --

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **MUSIC AND SHIT IN THIS CHAPTER**  
>  1\. [Cab Calloway's _Between the Devil and the Deep Blue Sea_](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8QI0EDNwGwY) (1931)  
>  2\. [Glenn Miller's _In the Mood_](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_CI-0E_jses) (1939)


	28. Mother Nature’s Son

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [**Mother Nature's Son**](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TMMiXjwhODU) by The Beatles (1968)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DID SOMEONE SAY PLOT!? ALMOST THIRTY CHAPTERS IN!? YEAH!!!! Warnings for homophobic language and brief violence/abuse in the first section, because everyone hates Bro anyhow ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ too bad he’s here, now. sorry for the shorter chapter. the last section is just a voltron pesterlog. but it's got a funny little twist that you'll still find out if you don't read it, anyhow.

Alone, no-longer-quite-as-drunk-as-he-had-been, with an aching body, and sporting a black eye, DAVE STRIDER tries to piece together fragmentary thoughts, which float in his mind like endless specks of dust against streaks of light through a window pane. He retraces his steps.

How had he ended up in this shitty motel, an hour’s walk away from campus? Why is he listening to two pumped-up nobodies loudly fucking in the room to his immediate left? Why does his heart ache, as if he’s lost someone important to him? He feels lost, alone, and, for the first time since leaving home, he’s afraid. He’s absolutely and undeniably afraid. It’s a fear that burrows beneath his skin and makes a home in his heart, contorting itself around it like a tourniquet.

_He’d been to a bar. He doesn’t know which one, now. He’d seen him, and he was immediately accosted. “No brother of mine is a goddamned faggot,” the man had said. “Who is this!? Who are you talking about?”_

_Dave offered no reply, which only angered the man more._

_“I looked him up, David.” The name, spoken in a voice other than Rose’s, brought up unpleasant memories, and reminders of physical pain. It brought back the pangs of isolation and the stings of cigarettes against bare skin. “You didn’t think I’d let you just walk out there, into this big, wide world, did you?”_

_Still drunk to the point of incohesive stupidity, Dave remained mute, as if waiting for rebuke._

_“You get that little pussy-ass shit away from you, or so help me I will go and do it myself. You don’t take nothing from useless leeches like that. Do you understand? Either you leave him, or I’ll make sure that sick fuck is dead faster than you’d fucking believe.”_

_There was a moment of lucidity, a clear, honest, and heartfelt longing for someone who actually cared about him as more than a trophy child. A need for true belonging rose up, from deep within Dave’s heart, and it came forth as a strong, unrepentant, “No.”_

_“The fuck you say to me, you stupid little bastard?” pressed the man._

_Every fiber of his being screamed otherwise, yet his clawing loneliness won out. “I said ‘no’!” Dave repeated. Louder, now. Stronger. “I ain’t afraid of your bullshit any more, Bro.”_

_The next thing Dave can remember is a dull crack, and the feeling of blood dripping from his nose. He found himself face-down, battered and bloodied, in a dark alleyway behind the bar. From there, he’d worked his way to the motel, and he can only assume that's how it played out._

He finishes smoking a cigarette, crushes it against the hotel’s provided cigarette tray, and curls up in bed, feeling exposed and cold. The sounds of rats running through the walls and the shouts of the couple on the other side of his room (not the ones fucking, of course; they’re still fucking) remind him of home. The sound of sobbing and pleas that things will be better are familiar.

 

_It’s the same thing. It’s always the same thing. Always the same door, the same cold tiles beneath his hands, and the same harsh voice, the drawling, drunken shouting he’d only just stood up to today. There’s the imagined sting of a slap to the face, and the trickle of warm blood from his nose. Then, when the door closes, something changes. There’s light._

_A hand reaches up, to the flickering bulb of his childhood storage room, and screws it in all the way. When he looks up, he sees..._

_“Karkat?”_

_The other man smiles. It makes his face so inviting, so welcoming. It fills Dave with a sense of purpose, a desire to be better, and a need to see that smile again and again. “You could have screwed that piece of shit bulb in a while ago, you know? Do you like migraines?”_

_“Guess so.” Dave, still stunned by this development, shrugs. The pain from before is gone. He sits up, crosses his legs, and tries to smile at this newfound friend; he’s sure it comes across as a grimace._

_“Why are you here?” The dreamt up version of Karkat asks, shifting in his wheelchair. “Why not leave?” Another smile. He reaches out, offering a hand, clad in a fingerless black leather glove, and nods to a door behind Dave. (He’s never seen this door before. Not once. In twenty years of dreaming, he’s never before thought to turn around.) “Come on, you fucking idiot, let’s get out of here. There are better places to cry about yourself.”_

_Without hesitation, Dave takes the hand. He stands, and follows Karkat through the door._

_The world on the other side is bright, yet subdued. The only thing that seems genuine is_ him _. “You look like you want to say something, Strider. Spit it out.”_

_“I—”_

The alarm buzzes.

“... I love you,” Dave finishes, his voice soft. “I... Oh. Jesus fuckin’ Christ.” Just what Dave needs. To fall in love with his shouting, perpetually raging roommate.

* * *

When he pulls up to the hotel, in Lance’s stupid little station wagon, **KEITH KOGANE** is very keenly aware of the fact that he’s about to pick up his hungover musical idol. Not that it really matters... sort of... And not as if he’s making sure his hair is properly fixed when said musician taps on the window of his car.

“How exactly did you get sent here to pick me up?” Dave asks, raising his left brow higher than his right. Curiously enough, the edges of a black eye are visible at the edges of his lenses. “I mean, it’s nice of you to pick me up an’ all, but...”

Having prepared himself for this, Keith takes a deep breath in. Then, he explains the entire convoluted chain of events. “Rose pestered Karkat, who pestered Kanaya, who texted Rose, who texted John, who pestered Pidge, who texted Hunk, who texted Lance, who told me to come pick you up.”

Dave blinks. He nods, slowly. “Fuckin’ wild.” Upon hearing the doors unlock, he clambers into the passenger’s seat. “Well, dude, thanks for pickin’ me up. Your name’s Keith, right?”

A smirk is only natural. There’s a moment of shock that Dave remembered his name, followed by a poorly hidden sense of excitement. “Yeah! You signed and autograph for me a few weeks ago.”

“Well, nice to know I have solid fans.” Dave yawns. While the car ride is less than five minutes long (and, if the traffic is heavy, as it currently is not, it would be about ten minutes,) the music is just mellow enough to make his eyelids heavy. The guitar melody thrums in his aching head, like a heavy bass beat, but it's not entirely unpleasant.

 _“Find me in a field of grass,_  
_Mother Nature's son._  
_Swaying daisies sing a lazy song beneath the sun.”_

“The Beatles?” Dave asks.

Keith responds defensively, “I know they're cliché, but they're _good_ , okay? They're not the best in the world, and they're not Jesus, but—”

Dave snickers. “It's fine. I'm not here to critique your music tastes, dude.”

Keith offers an appreciative nod.

The rest of the car ride is silent, save for the fading of the final guitar chords of the song.

* * *

Later, once he's finished his classes and his hangover is gone (in that order), **DAVE STRIDER** lounges on the dorm's makeshift sofa, once again made of overturned milk crates and a mattress pad. He plucks at the strings of his guitar and, from time to time, he takes a pencil from behind his ear and scribbles some notes into an open notebook on the floor. He tries to make it seem as if he's deeply engrossed in writing his newest song, “Intoxicated Street Mime”, though effort does not always equal success. And, the minute the door opens, and Karkat enters, the act drops. (Not that he was really trying to convince anyone. There was no one in the room besides him.)

“Looking smooth, dude,” Dave mumbles.

Karkat, obviously more than a bit perplexed by this, nods slowly. He flicks on the lights.

Dave, having clipped his shades to his shirt collar, winces. He fumbles with them, and replaces them quickly. “You're still going to the Halloween party, right?”

“Sure.” There's a moment of silence, which coincides with the exact second Karkat's gaze lands on Dave's blackened eye. Thankfully, it ends without him commenting on it. “Why?”

“‘Dunno. I was thinkin’... maybe you'd... like to go with me?” Without really thinking about it, Dave wrings his hands together, as if trying to pop his knuckles. “Not that'cha'd _have_ to, y'know? Just an offer. Puttin’ some cards on the table. Seein’ where they all end up. Showin’ you my little poker hand. I got me some ones, an’ a few twos...”

Karkat laughs, causing Dave to jump. “There aren't any ones in a card set, you absolute fuck-knob. We're already going to the party together, aren't we? If I recall correctly, we agreed that that much.”

“I mean, yeah, sure. We sure did agree to those terms, but I'm suggestin’ we go _together_ ,” Dave tries to say what he wants to say without really saying it. As far as he's concerned, it's not as bad, so long as he doesn't admit it aloud. “Y'know, as—?” _Pals_ he wants to say.

“Dates?” Karkat supplies. There's a smirk on his face, but it's not hostile. In fact, the closer Dave looks, the more hints of something more he sees. Happiness? Excitement?

“Don't have to be like that, but, if you want it t'be, sure. From what I've heard, the couple's winning basket is bigger, anyhow. I mean, makes sense, too. You got two people to prize instead of one, right? Might as well throw more shit in.”

A slow nod. Karkat's smirk grows ever wider. “Now you're suggesting we go as a couple costume duo, huh? Well, then, do you have ideas?”

“Greasers?”

Karkat introduces his reply with a dry, humorless laugh. “No.”

“Fine, then, Mister Thinks-Of-All-The-Best-Halloween-Costumes-Ever. What's your idea?”

“How do you feel about cowboys?”

In spite of his best attempts at hiding it, Dave's excitement shows.

* * *

\-- loverBoy [LB] opened a memo on board HALLOWEEN COSTUME BRAINSTORM TIME --  
\-- loverBoy [LB] responded to memo at 19:02! --

LB: hey so who here has some bomb ass couple costumes for keith and i  
LB: i want that candy guys

\-- ectoBiologist [EB] responded to memo at 19:02! --

EB: oh! i know! what about one of you dressing as nic cage and the other as the declaration of independence?

\-- mulletLover [ML] responded to memo at 19:03! --

ML: Lance, so help me god, if you do that i'll fucking kneecap you.

LB: okay sorry that's a solid no  
LB: i kind of like my kneecaps

EB: shit! then i'm out of ideas. :\

\-- palaDad [PD] responded to memo at 19:05! --  
\-- installWizard [IW] responded to memo at 19:05! --

PD: Are you trying for the Rainbow Alliance contest? Adam and I won our first year.

IW: lance dress as a tool because that's what you are.  
IW: keith can be a toolbox. he's already go you in him.  
IW: oh! hi shiro!

ML: NO.

\-- ML has banned IW from responding to the memo! --  
\-- bakingBro [BB] responded to memo at 19:10! --

BB: what if lance dresses as a frog, and keith also dresses like a frog?

LB: hunk buddy i don't think that really classifies as a couple costume i think that's just two people wearing the same costume

PD: Yeah, to qualify for the couple costume, it has to be two different costumes that work together. Cute idea, though, Hunk! Have a gold star.

BB: thanks! :D

EB: oh! how about cowboys?

ML: Didn't we *just* establish that both costumes have to be different? Didn't we!?

EB: no, i mean one of you is the bandit, and the other is the sheriff!

LB: okay that actually sounds pretty solid dude

ML: Not actually a horrible plan...  
ML: I mean, it's a good idea, but could we pull it off?

LB: you  
LB: in assless chaps  
LB: yes please

ML: That's it, lance, you're going to gay baby jail.

\-- ML has muted LB! --

ML: Hey, shiro, what did you and adam win as?

PD: Glad you asked! What fond memories... I was Sputnik-2, and Adam was Laika.

BB: aw! cute!

ML: ... I think i regret asking, now...

PD: Say what you want, Keith, but that costume combo won Adam and I one sweet candy haul. ;)

\-- IW has unbanned IW from the memo! --

IW: lol. nerds.

ML: Pidge, what the actual fuck? How do you unban yourself?

\-- IW has unmuted LB! --

LB: lol nerds

IW: i said it first lance.  
IW: and that's my little secret. UwU

ML: You're not even an admin for this memo!!!!!!!

IW: you're right! and yet watch this shit!

\-- installWizard [IW] has closed the memo! --


	29. Snake Eater

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **[Snake Eater](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9aHQnDTd1y4) by Cynthia Harrell, from _Metal Gear Solid 3: Snake Eater_**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there's a few pesterlogs at the end. non-essential to plot, just for flavor. you know. fic flavor. fic flavortown.

Before we venture deeper into this chapter of this Halloween fiasco, however, it should be noted that, prior to arriving at a costume party, many awkward moments can be avoided by simply contacting people you know and asking them what they'll be wearing. It saves you from many, many headaches, as well as a fair number of accusations of costume-based collusion. It should also be noted that neither couple—Karkat and Dave, nor Keith and Lance—actually did this. So, instead, everyone is treated to the obvious awkwardness that ensues when, upon arriving, Dave comes to a not-so-stunning-for-us-readers conclusion.

“Fuck. They copied us!”

Karkat, clad in costume store cowboy outfit, with a cardboard convict number (24601, thank you very much) around his neck, and a faux plywood “interrogation table” zip-tied across his lap (via the optional attachable arm rests), turns. His eyes narrow, and he recognizes that Keith and Lance are, indeed, sporting similar outfits. In their case, however, they each appear to be part of a duel. Obviously fake blood is dotted sporadically over both their costumes, and Lance sports a shining plastic sheriff badge.

“Dammit!” In the perfect image of an actual cowboy, rips off his hat. He throws it to the ground, and crushes it beneath his plastic-spurred boot. “This is bullshit!”

At the exact moment this occurs, Lance, too, notices. “FUCK! Keith, your stupid band idol stole our idea!”

“We had the same idea. What's the big deal?” Keith comments, grabbing onto the high collar of Lance's jacket.

Likewise, as Dave moves to step forward, Karkat rams the metal footrests of his wheelchair into the side of his shin. “Come on, fucknugget, I see something to do over here.” As if to emphasize this, he shoves Dave in the opposite direction. (The height difference makes it such that Karkat's hand ultimately ends up on Dave's ass, though the recipient of the gesture isn't about to complain.) “You want to go get stereotypically drunk? This isn't an official school-sponsored event—”

“As I may have noticed from the fact that it's being held in Roxy's apartment instead of on campus?” Dave counters. By now, his thoughts have turned from Lance and Keith's shameless mirror costume. He leans over, scoops up his now-crumpled foam hat, and places it back on his head. He eagerly raids the table, which is obviously not being watched, and scoops up a bottle of hard apple cider and a wine cooler. Returning to Karkat, he sets the wine cooler on the makeshift table, and pops his drink open with the bottle opener.

Karkat, meanwhile, gently nudges the alcohol to the edge of the table. “No thanks.”

“What?” Dave is already busy downing his drink.

“I can't drink, Strider, it's like shooting my reflexes to hell with thirty dead-eye-ready cowboys, to put it in character.”

By now, Dave's bottle is almost empty. Since he'll be heading back to the table, he takes his date's (boyfriend's?) drink in his free hand. “What, like, clumsy?”

“It makes my muscles loosen up, which isn't as good as it sound, actually. It's really just a whole fucking load of problems.” He offers a nervous laugh. He also moves to rubs his palms against his knees, which Dave is starting to register as a nervous tell. However, since the fake table is in the way, he ultimately ends up tapping his fingers atop the plywood. “Look, you really don't want to open that whole can of writhing, diseased, yet somehow rotting worms.”

“Who knows? I mean, if this is a date, maybe I do.” A shrug. “C'mon. Dump it out. Pour out the shit, let me take a hit. I'll pop a squat over here and let you whisper in my ear.”

“First of all, quit it with the bad rapping. Go, put the drink back, and I might consider telling you.”

* * *

Unlike Karkat and Dave, Lance hit the bottle immediately, though he's not as much of a chugger as Dave. He nurses his drink carefully, making sure to keep a steady, decent pace. At this exact moment, he and Keith stand before pretty sizable television, waving Wii controllers around wildly, like the pair of stupid young adults they are.

“Who— Would have thought— The William Tell Overture—?” Lance pants.

“I told you—” **KEITH KOGANE** , having had quite enough of this fiasco, drops his controllers. He kneels on the floor, and falls over, face-down, with his cheek pressed to the hardwood floor. “Fuck, dude, that's enough for me. I'm tapping out.”

“I'll save you, bud!” Hunk jumps in, grabbing hold of the controllers, and doing his best to continue in Keith's stead.

Pidge, meanwhile, continues what she's been doing. She tosses some popcorn into her mouth, lounges back on the sofa, and laughs. “I told you not to set it to play the William Tell Overture five times in a row, stupid. I mean, Stupid and soon-to-be Mister Stupid.”

“We're still in college,” Keith grumbles, pushing himself into a cross-legged sitting position. When he runs his fingers through his hair, they come away soaked in sweat. “We're not getting married any time soon.”

“'Course not,” Pidge snickers, the smirk on her face enough to split Keith's emotions evenly between wanting to smack her and wanting to laugh with her. “You all made your stupid bed, so now you both get to sleep in it.”

As if on cue—as if to only emphasize this fact in the most humorous of ways—Hunk, too, drops the controllers. “Nope! Not happening today! Lance, you're in it on your own.”

A long sigh escapes the lone remaining member of this ill-advised bet. (A bet, which, in total, has a betting pot of about eight dollars of total value.) Leaning over, Lance scoops up the downed controllers and continues his dancing tirade. “Yes! Yes! We'll— We're going— ALL! THE! WAY! I'M GOING TO WIN!”

“Lance, you're a dumbass,” Keith calls.

“C'mon, buddy, you can do it!” encourages Hunk.

Pidge, meanwhile, simply starts cackling.

* * *

With Karkat directly at his side, **DAVE STRIDER** lounges at the other end of the sofa from the uproarious happenings of the Voltron crew. He folds his arms across his chest, pops off his boots, and props his feet up, on the table. “So, you grouchy motherfucker, tell me about yourself.”

“I don't know what the fuck you want me to tell you.” There's a grin on Karkat's face, one that practically reeks of ‘I know exactly what you want me to say, but I won't say it’. “I'll trade you a question for a question. How's that?”

“Fair.” By now, the alcohol is settling in. There's a warmth spreading through Dave's body, and he finds that it only strengthens when he looks at Karkat. “Your idea, you go first.”

“Fair.” Karkat sips his own drink, which is actually just ginger ale (much to Dave's chagrin; he hates ginger ale). “Do you ever take off those damned shades? Do you wake up, look at the sun, and say, ‘Ah! Fuck you, bastard! I'm going to put these shit-mongering abominations of fashion on my face and never take them off!’ I know you _need_ them, but really?”

“I don't shower with these sick babes on, no,” Dave burps, an action he finds funny enough to chuckle at. Then, he continues, “Guess we should try and learn about each other, since this is a... date.” It takes him a moment to say the word. “Ever had a girlfriend?”

“Terezi. She and I were both on the rehab floor for a while, back in ninth grade. I'd just gotten spinal surgery, and she'd been recently blinded. We're still friends. You?”

“Nope.”

“A tool like you? Never?” Karkat laughs, though, to Dave's relief, he doesn't press the issue. “Okay. Second question. You and Rose are actually related?”

“I know, right? That shit's just off the hook stupid. No clue how it happened, but didn't actually grow up together. I lived with my older brother, Bro, so...” Dave pauses. Just the name, as it passes from his lips, douses the building flame within him. “I don't really want to talk 'bout that, though, so, new topic. My question for you: how many dates have you gotten since high school, you middle school love machine?”

Karkat shrugs. “Not many. My health decided to fuck itself over when I hit thirteen, actually. After that, people lost interest. I mean, I was a pretty standard kid until then. If there's a positive side to this, though, it's that I've stabled out, for the time being.” There's a pause, during which Karkat finishes the last of his drink, before he continues, a grim smirk plastered on his face. “Why does it matter to you, anyhow?”

“Just curious, I guess.”

 

By 7:00, the party is winding down. Most of the main events—the single costume contest, and, after it had been wrestled from the grasps of the Voltron crew, the planned Dance Dance Revolution tournament, and the apple bobbing have all been completed. And, now, alongside a thoroughly drunk Dave,  **KARKAT VANTAS** waits for the costume party verdict. Admittedly, there isn't much competition. Few people actually seem to have a couple costume going.

“Okay, y'all, time for the final event of the night! The couple's costume contest! Callie and I have judged, and the winners are...” Roxy hypes the announcement up by drumming out a roll on the top of a nearby cooler with a pair of of random pens. Then, while Calliope sets off a confetti gun, she concludes, “A tie! We've got two bundles, one for each of you. Keith and Lance! Dave and Karkat!” Again, Calliope backs the announcement up, tossing the respective pairs their prize.

Both parties are shocked.

(Narrative-wise, it would be unwise to place a perspective break here, but the narrator is an idiot, and wishes to inform all interested parties that Lance and Keith immediately rip into their package, and begin to playfully quibble over who will eat the singular red Twizzler.

In his own words, Keith's reaction to his win is, “Fuck.”

Lance, when pressed, notes, “How the fuck did this happen?”)

Dave, despite his drunken state, manages to catch the prize. For the first time since meeting him, Karkat notes a smile on the man's face. It's as strange as it is pleasant to witness, and there's a longing in Karkat's heart for the image to never end. Aware of the fact that such an occurrence is rare, he sneaks a photo of it, quickly tucking his phone back under the makeshift table over his lap before Dave notices.

“So, we won?”

“I mean, sure does seem that way, dude.” Dave's words are slurred. He hooks two fingers of his right hand into the handle of the plastic-wrapped bundle, and gently rests one hand on each armrest of Karkat's wheelchair. “God, you're fuckin' cute, dude,” he mutters. His breath, while obviously reeking of alcohol, is backed by the smell of tobacco, with a hint of the peanut butter cups he's been snacking on all night.

“Thanks. I guess you're not too bad to look at, either. I mean—” Karkat doesn't finish his statement. Instead, he's interrupted by an abrupt, but not unwanted kiss. He finds himself leaning into it, wrapping one arm around Dave's neck, and grabbing the front of his stupid, obviously-fake-leather vest with his other. With a gentle pull, he drags the man down, closer to his height. While he'd come to college certain that he'd avoid any sort of romance, he can't help but let his eyes slide close. He lets himself enjoy the moment, and to savor the warmth and tenderness.

Then, as abruptly as it began, it stops.

Dave pulls away, looking more than a little shocked at what's just happened, and awkwardly tugs at his vest. “I... I guess that happened, huh?” he breathes.

* * *

\-- turntechGodhead [TG] began pestering ectoBiologist [EB] at 23:01! --

TG: hey so i think i might be gay  
TG: because i kissed karkat tonight and it was like the fourth of july fireworks on steroids taking steroids and illegally playing sports you fuckin feel

EB: you do know everyone but you already know that, right?

TG: that i kissed karkat

EB: haha. no, that you were gay!  
EB: rose and kanaya have been betting me on how long it'd take for you to wake up and smell the gay coffee.  
EB: but, also, congrats! i'm sure you're a very cute couple.

TG: oh yeah you weren't at the party  
TG: hey by the way pidge said in the group chat that she had my wallet but i cant figure out how to contact her can you tell her to drop the wallet off at karkat's dorm

EB: haha. sure.  
EB: happy gay day!  
EB: also, watch out for a hangover in the morning.

\-- ectoBiologist [EB] ceased pestering turntechGodhead [TG] at 23:12! --

* * *

\-- twinArmageddons [TA] began pestering carcinoGeneticst [CG] at 23:00! --

TA: hey 2o word on the 2treet ii2 that you and that funny liittle blond douche are all hooked up now!  
TA: heard from piidge that you too were mackiing iit up.  
TA: congrat2 on the actiion!

CG: Oh. Fuck. Thanks, Sollux, but can this wait until the morning?

TA: oh no. diid he giive you alcohol?  
TA: do ii need two kiick hii2 a22?

CG: I'm flattered you care so much about but me, but I want to fucking sleep, you absolute soggy pissrag.

TA: oh 2hiit you're riight!  
TA: diid ii wake you up pa2t your bedtiime?

CG: Oh, fuck off, man. Quit riding my fucking dick, you'll chafe yourself.

TA: ii mean iit 2ound2 two me liike you've got 2omeone el2e too do that for you now, riight?

CG: I want to *sleep*, Sollux.

TA: faiir enough.

\-- twinArmageddons [TA] ceased pestering carcinoGeneticist [CG] at 23:12! --

* * *

\-- turntechGodhead [TG] began pestering carcinoGeneticist [CG] at 23:18! --

TG: <3

CG: Please, Strider, go to sleep. You're drunk as fuck.

TG: thanks for tonight

CG: You're welcome, now let me sleep.

\-- carcinoGeneticist [CG] ceased pestering turntechGodhead [TG] at 23:20! --

* * *

\-- tentacleTherapist [TT] responded to memo on board DAVE'S A BIG GAY - BETTING POT at 23:59! --

TT: Well, would you take a fleeting glance at that? I win! Pay up!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as always, thanks for reading! comments and feedback are always welcome, as are any suggestions!


	30. Desperado

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **[Desperado](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9lOg-qMyrRs)** by The Eagles (1973)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> content warning for some pesterlogs. no weird quirks, tho. as always, thanks for reading! there's also a phone exchange, obviously, near the beginning, which means watch for slurs. because it's bro. the phone exchange at the bottom is as clean as an exchange with karkat can get.

Perhaps it isn’t normal to spend your nights wandering around your room as silently as possible, staring out, through cracks in the curtain, and waiting for the sounds of scraping metal. Is it? Is it? Fuck if **DAVE STRIDER** knows, because he doesn’t. He just knows that, three days ago, he had the best night of his life. He knows that, this morning, as he was walking to class, mind his own goddamned business, he saw a familiar grey hat. He knows that, nine hours ago, after finishing his lunch (with, of course, Karkat) and parting ways, he’d felt hot breath down the back of his neck, heard the sound of a low, disapproving hum, and that he saw nothing when he turned around. He’s gone from an absolute high to the most anxious of lows, and it’s pulverizing his brain into the mushiest, least appealing sort of mash.

“Dave,” Karkat groans. There’s a soft shuffling of covers as he rolls over, and, in the moonlight, Dave can see his arm reaching out, over the side of the bed, and becoming for him to join in on the bottom bunk. “You’ve been acting so fucking weird, dammit. Just come to bed. It’s almost one.”

“I’ll be there in a minute,” Dave lies.

“You said that two hours ago.”

“Go to sleep, Karkat.”

A resigned huff, followed by a soft yawn. More covers shift, and silence descends upon the room once more.

 

By 3:00, Dave still hasn't fallen asleep. In fact, he's far from asleep. He's wide awake, and the buzzing of his phone only serves to jolt any semblance of a chance he had at getting to sleep straight out of his system. As he knows, a buzzing phone can mean a few things. Rose and Kanaya are both asleep, so it's not them. Karkat, too, is sleeping, so it can't be him. While it's certainly possible, he doubts any official school announcements would be sent out this late (or is it early?). That least only one possibility, and it's the exact situation that he most dreads. Nonetheless, he has to confront it. He opens the phone, squinting against the sudden brightness, and reads.

Bro  
  
**Bro:** Hey so I've noticed you hanging with that shitty little faggot lately. What's up with that?  
  
**Dave:** first of all that's considered stalking  
  
**Dave:** and i told you i don't give a fuck what you say any more because it doesn't matter to me now  
  
**Dave:** i do what i fuckin want now how's that sound  
  
**Bro:** Aw. That's cute. You think you can just run off with your little boyfriend. Well, guess what? I know what you are at all times, lil dude, and I bet you that means I know where he is. So, you want to keep playin this fuckin game? Be my guest. But I'm not letting off the hook that easy.  
  
**Dave:** fuck you  


* * *

November arrives in a flurry of snow and hail. The beginning of the second week marks the beginning of an unplanned snow break. This is, after all, the middle of America's east coast, and a foot of snow doesn't bode well for most people living there. If, for some reason, this is unbelievable, simply ask a lifelong resident of a place such as, say, Virginia, how to drive in a foot of snow; I, the author, can assure you that there will be an answer that's somewhat akin to, “Fuck if I know!”

For many residents, this means unprecedented access to ample and ideal conditions to create hulking sculptures of various inappropriate things. Breasts, phallic towers, and the occasional yonic wall are dotted likes spots on a cow, with the spots being inappropriate items and the cow being the campus. Others, namely the art students, have made more impressive displays of snowmanship, such as a lovingly sculpted rendition of a question mark block in the courtyard.

Among those enjoying the frolicking and frivolity is a particular  **PIDGE GUNDERSON** , who may or may not be familiar to some. Having helped her friends complete a two-foot-tall snow phallus, she now sits on a nearby snowbank and powers on her phone. Before going about her usual business (all while, of course, wearing gloves that enable her to use the phone while keeping her fingers warm,) she takes photos. Then, after noticing that a red “ **1** ” is hovering in the corner of her Pesterchum app, she opens it up.

\-- turntechGodhead [TG] began pestering installWizard [IW] at 11:02! --

TG: hey dude weird question but do you know how to jailbreak a phone that's already been jailbroken  
TG: jailbroke  
TG: jailbreaked  
TG: has been jailbreaked

\-- installWizard [IW] is an idle chum! --  
\-- installWizard [IW] has come online! Say hello! --

IW: oh hey didn't notice you dude. you're dave right? from the dumb band keith likes?

TG: wow rude that's my dumb band you're calling a dumb band

IW: i'm just saying it like it is dude. i can do some stuff to your phone but it depends on what it is.  
IW: if you're looking for flappy bird i can't help.  
IW: you know your weird boyfriend or whatever can probably do it. he's pretty smart.

TG: okay so first of all HE'S NOT MY BOYFRIEND

IW: oh i see. lol. okay well your not your boyfriend could probably help.  
IW: actually wait. not to be boasting or anything but i did just hack the pesterchum client so never mind. i'll help you. but did you bother asking karkat first?

TG: that is fuckin weird don't pull that shit again it makes my brain do backflips straight off the cliffs of insanity  
TG: and no i didn't ask  
TG: i'm trying to keep all this on the down low right now  
TG: flying low and keeping out of the spotlight because of reasons i'm not going to tell you since i don't really know you all that well  
TG: not to be mean or anything you know

IW: damn. you DO talk a lot. you're like lance.  
IG: don't tell him i said that.

TG: don't tell me you said it either

IW: okay. i need to go join a snowball fight soon and kick keith and lance's stupid smug asses. hurry it up. what do you need done?

TG: i need to know if my phone messages are being tracked and if they are i need them to not be

IW: okay. weird but okay. i can do that.

TG: i need it done real soon pal

IW: bring it over around 3:00 today and i can get it all done by 5.

TG: any charges

IW: is that a question or a statement?

TG: question

IW: no charges.  
IW: i'll do it as a favor since keith would murder me if i tried to extort money from his second gay crush.  
IW: peace out loser.

\-- installWizard [IW] ceased pestering turntechGodhead [TG] at 12:02! --

As soon as the phone is back in Pidge's pocket, she's greeted by a familiar grin. “Any reason you're standing over me right now, Lance?”

“Yeah, Keith and I are going to the dining hall to pick up food for everyone. You know, refueling before the snowball fight. What do you want?”

“Not sure. Probably just my usual cheeseburger.” After brushing some snow off of the gloves, Pidge stands. “By the way, I've heard that there's going to be a movie showing tonight in the commons. I think they said it'll be something about space robot lions. I don't know if you'd be interested in going.” She shrugs, turns her head a bit to the side, and offers a wry smile. What she had just said was a lie; she very much knows that Lance, in all his science fiction nerd glory, will go apeshit for whatever it is they'll be screening. “Or, you know, Hunk and I could just go alone...”

“God, no! Count me in!” Lance turns, begins to walk towards Keith, and calls out to him, “Hey, nerd! We're going to the movie in the commons tonight!”

“Hey! Do _I_ maybe get a say in this?” counters Keith, his hair seeming to bristle slightly, as if he's drawn from the cels of a movie made by a certain Japanese animation company whose name begins in ‘Ghi-’ and ends in ‘-bli’. Pidge knows this is due to the wind, but she also entertains the brief notion that Keith is an anime character.

“Yeah. Sure. What's your say?”

“My say is: ‘Fuck you, but fine.’”

“Awesome!” Lance beams, and the smile manages to spread, working itself onto Pidge's face. He throws his arm over his boyfriend's shoulders, and the two wander off to the campus dining hall, still swapping idle chatter.

* * *

Pidge's room is in one of the older dorm complexes, a sort of strange ‘E’-shaped cluster of one-story buildings, number B18. The inside is cluttered, and filled with everything ranging from electronics parts and cooking supplies to the standard fare of college textbooks, all piled haphazardly throughout the space. When **DAVE STRIDER** arrives, only Pidge is there; Hunk is nowhere to be found, not that Dave is interested in where he could be.

“Oh,” Pidge greets the visitor, offering a small half-smile as she leads him to a beanbag chair on the floor, “So you _do_ wear those shades everywhere, huh? Wild. Toss my your phone.”

Not exactly in the mood for extensive verbal conversation, Dave quickly does as told. “Thanks, Pidge,” he mutters.

“No problem. This might take a while. Did you bring something else to do?” Already, she's started working. She doesn't look up from her desk. “I don't mind what you do, just make sure it's not super loud. I mean, I don't care, but Hunk and I have gotten a noise citation or two for our _Cooking Mama_ sessions. And don't tell anyone else that, okay?”

“Sure. Sounds fine to me. I've brought my laptop with me, might as well use it.”

* * *

Elsewhere on campus, but still safely inside, and away from the cold winds of winter, **ROSE LALONDE** hums as she stirs her freshly brewed hot chocolate. As most non-lactose-intolerant people, who enjoy actual flavor, do, she has made it with milk. (Not that the author—nor, Rose Lalonde, for that matter—has something _against_ people who might make their hot cocoa with water for reasons other than health and wellness, it's just that the author—and, in fact, not Rose Lalonde—has something against people who make their hot cocoa with water.) The luxurious beverage rests inside a mug, onto which “If found, return to...” is emblazoned upon, just above a picture of Kanaya's face.

From her own spot, luxuriously and gracefully spread out in a half-sphere chair, such as the sort one might acquire cheaply and easily at Target and similar stores, Kanaya blows at the steam rising from her own mug. And, as Kanaya would very readily note to anyone who might ask, she is quite proud of this particular mug. It is the standard shape and size for most ceramic handle-having vessels, but it features a picture of Rose's face on the front, with the caption “If found, return to...” written above it. She takes a sip, hums, contentedly, and speaks up, “ _La Vie en Rose_?” she guesses the tune is humming. “You and your brother often hum random things, you know.”

“I'm very, very aware of that, dear. Let's not discuss things that I just happen to have in common with my genetic relative. Instead, why don't we discuss this delicious chocolate beverage? It's like chocolate milk, but warm, and immeasurably better, don't you agree?” Rose laughs. She sits down, next to her girlfriend, and places a quick kiss on her cheek. A deep inhale allows her to catch Kanaya's scent, too, which is comprised of pressed flowers and freshly cut grass and lavender. “Callie recommended it to me, actually.”

“Oh? Roxy's girlfriend. She's a lovely woman.” There's a pause, as Kanaya takes another sip of her drink. “Not as lovely as you, of course, but quite lovely.”

Rose smiles. She sets her own drink down, on the nearby bedside table, before leaning in to offer Kanaya a more intimate kiss. Her lips have just touched hers when, to her dismay, her laptop beeps. A low growl escapes her, and she shakes her head. “Oh, pardon my French, but, _fuck_.”

Mirroring this disappointment, Kanaya, too, sighs. “Ah. Let me guess. Dave?”

“You have hit the nail so precisely on the head that it constitutes an instantaneous kill, I believe.” Rose's response is spoken before she even sits down at her computer. She doesn't need to see Dave's username to know it's him.

\-- turntechGodhead [TG] began pestering tentacleTherapist [TT] at 16:02! --

TG: hey i hope i'm not coming in screaming balls deep into some really important sludge and all but uh  
TG: pidge found a tracker on my phone  
TG: she tried to remove it  
TG: hunk tried to remove it  
TG: lance and keith tried to remove it even though they suck absolute ass at programming and shit  
TG: we even got shiro you know like pro fucking fessor and prodigy takashi shirogane down here and he can't get it out  
TG: help

Despite her initial annoyance, the words on the screen soften Rose's approach to the situation. That's not to say that she isn't pissed, because she is still quite (and the author apologizes deeply for this strong language) PO'ed about the whole affair. Still, she supposes that, being a _good person_ , she should help her brother.

TT: Okay, Dave, you are, in a matter of speaking, interrupting something fairly important to me on a personal level. However, seeing that you are currently in some sort of, as you call it, “pickle”, I will offer whatever aid I can.  
TT: I suppose we should get the most importunate fact off of the colloquial table. Where did this tracker come from? Do you have, without any doubt, a source?

TG: well who the fuck do you think'd put a fuckin tracker on me rose  
TG: who do we know who might do that

TT: I am fully aware of the unpropitious odds of it being someone else, but encourage you to “use your words”.

TG: it's bro okay  
TG: it's my trash pile of a guardian and i need a new phone rose

TT: There we go! Your innermost thoughts and feelings have been divulged, and we have yet to meet a painful demise! I will do my best to procure you a phone. In the mean time, might I suggest relocating the tracker to somewhere else? Simply destroying it will call undue attention to the situation. I believe that John has mentioned that your old dorm is seeing a few rats? Perhaps pay him a visit, and acquire a rodent analog.

TG: are you suggesting i go full on metal gear shit mode stealth and fake my own locations by strapping a phone to an oversized pizza pocket gorged rat

TT: Humor brightens the worst of situations, as does making yourself as inconspicuous as possible.

TG: okay well thanks i guess i might as well try and get some shit together

TT: You're welcome. Now, please refrain from bothering me in the foreseeable future of the next few hours, okay?

\-- tentacleTherapist [TT] ceased pestering turntechGodhead [TG] at 16:48! --

* * *

Elsewhere, and, in fact, at an earlier time, **KARKAT VANTAS** lounges in his bed. His plush elephant blanket is wrapped around him, and a cup of steaming cocoa is at his side. He fiddles with his phone, mindlessly scrolling through Wikipedia. He's in the middle of reading about spontaneous human combustion, though he's not entirely sure why or how he even ended up here, when a message notifications slides down from the top.

Stupid Nerd (Sollux)  
  
**Sollux:** what's up nerd? liking the snow?  
  
**Karkat:** OH, YOU CAN BE ASSURED THAT I ABSOLUTELY LOVE BEING TRAPPED INSIDE MY DORM ALL DAY. IT'S THE MOST SPECTACULAR FUCK-ROLLICKING THING TO HAPPEN TO ME IN THE PAST NINETEEN YEARS OF MY SAD LITTLE LIFE.  
  
**Sollux:** hey you do whatever makes you happy, kk. is dave treating you good? do you want me to beat the shit out of him?  
  
**Karkat:** NO, YOU REALLY DON'T NEED TO. YOU'VE ALREADY GOTTEN THE MEMO THAT WE'RE DATING, ANYHOW. I DON'T SEE ANY REASON WHY YOU'D EXTRAPOLATE “HEY, I SHOULD BEAT THIS GUY UP” FROM WHAT.  
  
**Sollux:** you never fucking know what i might want two do, man. i can do what i want. just making sure he's treating my favorite kk right.  
  
**Karkat:** THAT'S KIND OF SWEET, ACTUALLY. HE'S A NICE GUY, SURPRISINGLY. HE'S FUNNY AND CUTE AND ALL THAT. I GUESS IT ALL WORKED OUT FINE, FOR ONCE. NOW, LEAVE ME ALONE SO I CAN RESUME MY MINDLESS READING OF WIKIPEDIA.  
  
**Sollux:** sure. whatever you wanna do.


	31. Son of Flynn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **[Son of Flynn](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YKEZoOjc6to)** by Daft Punk, from _Tron: Legacy_ (2010)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay so this is kinda planned as a big chapter of mixed text messages and chat logs. i guess you can skip the whole thing, but it's kind of a mini experiment for me and a bit of exposition. for the pesterlogs, swordMaster is NOT Dirk, it's Bro. So, yay, warnings there for homophobic and ableist language. the last few exchanges (a pesterlog and a text exchange) are kind of important to the plot, though, as a warning.

Annoying Woman (Aranea)  
  
**Aranea:** Hello, Karkat! This is your regular reminder to schedule your monthy physical therapy session. I have openings available this upcoming Monday, Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday! Respectively, the times are: 10:00 AM, 11:30 AM, 4:00 PM, and 2:00 PM! Let me know when you're available! :)   
  
**Karkat:** ARANEA, I APPRECIATE THESE LITTLE NOTICES, AND I'M ALSO KEENLY AWARE OF THE FACT THAT MY PARENTS ARE PAYING YOU ABSURD AMOUNTS OF MONEY TO BE MY REMOTE FUCK-COPTER CARETAKER, BUT I CAN TAKE CARE OF MYSELF.   
  
**Karkat:** IT'S OBVIOUS THAT SHIT ISN'T HAPPENING AT ANY SORT OF REASONABLE RATE RIGHT NOW, SO I'M NOT EXACTLY SURE WHAT WE'RE GOING FOR. IMPROVEMENTS? WHO FUCKING KNOWS! ACTUALLY, WE BOTH DO. WE BOTH KNOW ANY MODICUM OF AN IMPROVEMENT IS IMPOSSIBLE AT THIS POINT, AND WE MIGHT AS WELL JUST LEAVE THIS BULLSHIT AS DEAD IN THE WATER AS MY CHANCES OF FABLED RECOVERY ARE, OKAY?   
  
**Aranea:** Well, you need to remain flexible! I know you're probably very busy with your studies, but you need to make time for your physical health, too. I don't want to upset you, though, so I'll back down. I expect you to tell me a time that works for you, though!   
  


* * *

\-- swordMaster [SM] began pestering turntechGodhead [TG] at 10:40! --

SM: Hey, lil faggot I didn't raise to be like that, you better not pull some sort of stupid bullshit for Thanksgiving break. I know you're available, then. I asked the nice lady at the front desk, and she said all students must vacate the campus for breaks. So, where were you over fall break? Maybe I wanted some fuckin bonding time with my gay, useless son.

TG: i'm a legal adult and it's none of your business where i was over fall break  
TG: go eat an ass and die bro i don't give a fuck any more

SM: You don't? You really ain't afraid of me no more?  
SM: A cute idea, but you know what I can do. You're still legally under my roof, unless, o course, you've gotten your own place. Have you? Have you finally done something useful and made yourself scarce? Obviously not, since you just had to message me begging for gas money a few days ago.  
SM: So, let's go over this. You might be a fuckin adult, but you ain't got a job, and you ain't living somewhere on your own, unless you count boning your equally useless boyfriend a living situation. Is that what you were doing over break, lil dude? Were you boning him?

TG: no i just went home with him because i'd rather fuck a rabid ferret than deal with you

SM: Whatever. Next time I see you, plan on a nice, long, old-fashioned beat down.

TG: beat down  
TG: you still don't even have the balls to actually fight fair

SM: Make that two beat downs.  
SM: Might want to ask your stupid crippled boyfriend for a wheelchair, because I reckon you ain't walking back to college.

\-- swordMaster [SM] ceased pestering turntechGodhead [TG] at 11:01! --

Admittedly, **DAVE STRIDER** isn't quite sure what's emboldened him. The only thing he can think of that's changed in his life is Karkat, and...

Maybe...

 _No,_ the clueless young man dismisses the absolutely correct notion that his newfound relationship has given him to push he's always needed. _There must be another reason for this change. It can't just be Karkat, could it?_ No, Dave's mind isn't nearly as romantic as his boyfriend's; while, deep down, he knows it's true, his logical mind would never account for the fact that, in all his years of suffering through his brother's abuse, what he _really_ needed wasn't some mythical form of masculinity. At least for now, he's not willing to admit that what he's needed all along was someone who could truly trust, and someone he'd willingly put himself in danger for.

Now, that's not to say that Dave wouldn't willingly take a bullet for Rose. That's different. She's related to him. She's one of the few people in his family who's given him more of a thought beyond, _“Hey, this one looks like a great punching bag!”_ And, as far as John and Jade go, he would still jump in front of a bus for them. But, again, it's different. How? He doesn't know. And, in fact, the author is similarly unable to articulate the exact specifics of why this is. It just is. What _can_ be said, albeit not willingly by Dave, is that there's a bond between him and Karkat. There's an understanding and familiarity between them, born from a world of constant rejection and a need to live up to impossible-to-obtain goals.

Returning to the matters at hand, however, Dave finds himself staring down the barrel of a metaphorical gun and a very literal blade, though he can't yet see the latter. But, as the famous saying sort of goes, seeing doesn't equate to disbelieving. (Or at least, that's all that Dave can think of at this moment.)

* * *

**KARKAT VANTAS** isn't a fool, nor is he as entirely clueless as his boyfriend. He's noted Dave's recent anxiety.

It's not as if the changes in Dave's behavior were subtle, after all. He's grown paranoid. Every little noise makes him jump, and the sight of a grey hat or the sound of clanging metal makes his entire body stiffen. His conversations are even less coherent than before, his words, more clipped. It's been days since Karkat has heard the usual variety of Strider-esque tangents, and, to be honest, he misses them. If there was something he could always look forward to, it was Dave's oddball narratives. Now? Now, he's stuck listening to harsh, pared off sentences. His particular brand of thoughtful word-weaving has turned to haphazard rants. They're less like a majestic waterfall, and more akin to the putrid spewing of sewage from a broken pipe.

\-- carcinoGeneticist [CG] began pestering tentacleTherapist [TT] at 13:02! --

CG: What the literal fuck is wrong with Dave?

TT: While I love engaging in meaningful and thought-provoking discussions with you, Karkat, as you certainly know, I cannot provide you an satisfactory answer to this particular inquiry. In fact, I have also been ruminating on this. My brother has been acting incredibly strange lately, and I'm not sure why, either. I was actually about to message you, to ask you if you might have an idea.

CG: Well, gee, I guess we're at a chasm-fucking impasse, aren't we? If I knew what it was that turned my stupidly charming boyfriend into a capricious ball of angsty anxiety, then I hope I might have the common decency to tell his fucking sister.  
CG: Which is to say that I don't have any fucking clue what is going on. If I did, I wouldn't be wasting my time wearing my goddamned fingers to bloody, bone-spur-ridden stubs typing this all out.

TT: No need to be rude.

CG: You're right. Sorry.

TT: I understand. We're all frustrated. I believe I might have an idea, though. I'm not sure if he'd want me to tell you about my hunch...

CG: Paging Doctor Rose Lalonde to the morgue. Your patient is ice-cold-fucking-dead on the table and all because you're talking in shitty riddles.

TT: Aha! That sounds like something Dave would say!

CG: Don't you ever insult me to that degree again.

TT: I'm sorry. I just couldn't help myself. If you really want to know, I would ask him yourself.  
TT: I must warn you that what you might hear, if Dave even feels ready to divulge such personal information, will be extremely unpleasant. It will cause you a fair amount of distress, assuming that you are as enamored with my brother as I believe you are. (And it certainly seems that you are.) Know, however, that you could and cannot really do anything to assuage the matter. It is an issue that Dave, and Dave alone, must deal with.

CG: Thanks for an answer that poses so many answers it rounds right on back around and turns itself into a ouroboros of fucking useless, I guess.

TT: You're very welcome. Good luck. Ask about Bro.

\-- tentacleTherapist [TT] ceased pestering carcinoGeneticist [CG] at 13:58! --

* * *

\-- turntechGodhead [TG] began pestering mulletLover [ML] at 15:00! --

ML: Is the dave strider actually pestering me, or is this another of pidge and lance's dumb jokes?

TG: yeah it's me  
TG: your love of the band is real damn cute but i actually pestered you for another reason it's uh  
TG: man this is so fuckin weird  
TG: you're gay right

ML: I'm dating lance, so i sure hope so.

TG: okay cool that's nice that's cool uh  
TG: did your parents approve

ML: Lance is going to shit himself when i tell him that i gave life advice to dave fucking strider.  
ML: Anyhow, no. My parents are dead. They died a while ago, and i drifted in and out of foster homes. Plenty of them didn't approve of me being gay. Some of them were pretty damn abusive about it, too.

TG: was it worth it

ML: If i give you a straight answer do you promise you won't ever tell lance what i've said? It'll go straight to his head.

TG: i mean i can't do that now can i  
TG: this conversation already ain't straight so

ML: Keyboard smash ssdldanflakfnDG;lr;elm;l;  
ML: Fine. I'll give you that one.  
ML: Okay, so, i'll say it totally was. Dating lance has been the greatest thing in my life, even if he is a fucking idiot and a massive tool.  
ML: Look, dude, just follow your heart. That shit can't go wrong.

TG: hm  
TG: i guess you're right  
TG: thanks

ML: No problem. Glad i could help, dave.  
ML: Can i call you dave?

TG: yeah totes  
TG: and can i ask you one other thing

ML: Sure.

TG: see i've gotten myself into this real big sour motherfucker of a pickle  
TG: like this pickle could win the world fair by its sheer fuckin unbelievable size  
TG: crystal palace  
TG: never heard of her  
TG: i sure have heard of the massive pickle that is dave strider's current situation though so let's talk about that  
TG: can we talk about that we're going to talk about that  
TG: shiro's boyfriend adam is a lawyer isn't he

ML: ... Yeah?

TG: okay so i'm going to send you a file  
TG: and not to be rude and all  
TG: like don't take this as i'm famous and you're not so fuck you because you're a rad dude keith  
TG: but this isn't for you and i'd rather you not read it  
TG: i mean i can't show up there and stare you down all mother-like and make sure you don't open up the folder  
TG: it's just a click click away and all that but if you do go ahead and read it don't tell anyone bout it okay  
TG: but i need this file to go to adam

ML: I promise i won't read it. I mean, i'll do whatever i can to help.  
ML: Not to be overenthusiastic or whatever. I guess i'm just excited to be talking to dave strider.

TG: the one and only dude  
TG: thanks  
TG: you're a real bro for helping me  
TG: a weird ass niche musician you barely know  
TG: okay here's the file and i've got to go because i have a lot of other shit to do  
TG: thanks again i owe you something i'll like dedicate a song to you or whatever  
TG: it'll be called something like keith saved my ass or whatever

\-- TG sent a file! viable-evidence_DStrider.pdf \--  
\-- turntechGodhead [TG] ceased pestering mulletLover [ML] at 15:28! --

* * *

413-865-8766  
  
**Adam:** Hey, Dave! This is Adam, Shiro's boyfriend. Keith just contacted me and sent me the file you wanted me to receive. I think it's a little bit of an understatement to say the contents are disturbing.   
  
**Adam:** I don't think you'd falsify this evidence, and it's all pretty legit, so I'm going to ask you a question. You need to be completely honest with me. I'm here to help. How quickly are you ready to get out of this situation?   
  
**Adam:** Not quite yet, in the next few months, in a few weeks, or is this an emergency?   
  
**Dave:** it's an emergency   
  
**Adam:** I'll start performing the necessary actions immediately. Keith said he'll pay for everything, but I'm also a fan of your band, so this will be pro bono. ;)   
  
**Dave:** thanks dude i guess i owe you too 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I HAVE NO IDEA WHO OWNS THE NUMBER FOR ADAM OR IF IT EXISTS. PLEASE DON'T CALL IT. I only used it because it spells VOL-TRON. I also didn't know that the area code for Michigan is 413, and that makes me jealous. I want to be in the Homestuck Zone. Anyhow, who's ready to ultimate wish fulfillment: seeing Bro get his shit wrecked.


	32. Peaceful Easy Feeling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **[Peaceful Easy Feeling](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NjofshOBV5s)** by The Eagles (1974)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay Bro isn’t getting his ass kicked yet. But he will. It’s coming. Just like Washington, Washington. Six foot ten weighs a fucking ton.

On Sunday, the snow has melted enough for most major pathways to be clear. Classes are resuming on Monday, and everything has returned to as close to normal as possible. This includes the routines of many students, if whatever college life is can be considered anywhere close to routine. (And, in most cases, it probably isn’t.) For **DAVE STRIDER** , this day offers an opportunity to get out of the room, and not just alone. With the pathways now clear, Karkat joins him for the first day in almost a week. The pair has agreed to have an impromptu date at the campus’ student center. In fact, by the time the narrative focus lands on them, the date has already begun. Due to the decent weather, they sit outside, before one of the many round, wrought iron tables. Both are enjoying burgers.

“Do you still need me to take you to physical therapy next week?” Dave asks, pulling some stringy remnants of onion skin from between his teeth. “I mean, I’d be more than happy to, y’know. You and I, hitting it up on a road trip to wherever. We’d rock those sweet retro country tunes and maybe die of dysentery on the way through the Oregon trail.”

“The trip isn’t nearly long enough for even your stupid ass to die of dysentery, even if we get lost,” Karkat laughs. “If you don’t mind, I still need that ride. Maybe take a real car instead of a covered wagon, though. Not that I’d know where the fuck you’d get a covered wagon.”

“Callie says there’s one in the theater prop room.” Dave makes sure to keep a straight face as he says this, and he takes a moment to savor the confusion on his boyfriend’s face before continuing, “Do you have a time yet? Date?”

“Not yet. I need to get back to Aranea on that. They’ve just finished building a new ice cream place just down the road from the place I go to, so, if I’m not dead by the end of whatever positive rainbow-shitting activities she has planned for me, then we can drop by there.” Here, Karkat pauses. He looks up, to a passing bird, before continuing, “I’ve heard the place serves really great pies and pastries, too. You've got a rotting sweet tooth, Strider, so I'm sure you'll appreciate that.”

“What? We're still not on first name basis, Karkat?” As Karkat frowns, Dave smirks.

“From me? No. You're still a bit too high on the douche scale for that.” Now, it's Karkat's time to grin. The expression fades quickly, though, and a huff of discomfort escapes him. He shifts in his seat, but he continues speaking. “Where are you going for break? Not that it's a long one. I'm not even sure why they bother giving it to us. Two days is hardly worth anything.”

“I'm uh...” Dave's mind flounders. He tries to find a satisfactory lie, only to end up spitting out the truth. “I'm going home.”

“Are you going to be okay?”

“I'll be fine. Don't worry about it.”

* * *

During Monday's lab, it just so happens that **PIDGE GUNDERSON** arrives late. While it's not like she has to give a reason, nor is it true that she would verbally divulge her reason for being late, her tardiness is due to the fact that one of Hunk's experimental microwave pastries exploded. Not surprisingly, this created a massive mess, which Pidge felt the need to clean up before attending class. Still, she figures that being ten minutes late is better than abandoning her lab partner on lab day.

“Oh. Wonderful. You finally showed up,” Karkat growls. His fingers tap absentmindedly on the table, forming a steady beat. A waltz, from the sound of it. “I'm not even going to entertain the notion of trying to figure out why the fuck you're late.”

“That's appreciated.” Pidge drops her bag at her feet and cracks her knuckles. She logs into her computer, plugs in the flash drive, and studies her code from last night. “We're working on our codes, right?”

Karkat nods. “We're going to modify it, so that it displays a card game.”

“Okay, what _kind_ of card game? I can make solitaire pretty easily.”

“A simple matching game.”

 _Really?_ Pidge thinks. Not to brag, but she's pretty sure she's above this level. She had coded a matching game by the time she was seven. She has the aptitude, just not the credentials to back it up. In retrospect, maybe she _should_ have taken programming in high school. It would've saved her from doing this class...

“Easy. No problem.” After a few minutes, and a rapid series of keystrokes, she opens a preview of her program, a perfect matching game.

Karkat responds with a mixture of confusion, shock, admiration, and annoyance. “You've fucking lapped me, Pidge. I have no idea what you just did.”

There's a pause. It occurs to Pidge that most people haven't spent their entire childhood coding and making battle-ready robots. She exits out of the preview, glances at the jumble of code on her lab partner's screen, and breathes a heavy sigh. This? This is going to take a while. “Well, first of all...” she begins, leaning over, so that she can type on Karkat's keyboard.

* * *

At a not-much-but-notably-earlier time, and a different-but-still-quite-close-and-on-campus location, **ROSE LALONDE** is nestled against her girlfriend's side. In fact, she is sandwiched between Kanaya and the wall, so it's not as if she'll be getting out of bed any time soon. And, beyond that, it's cold. The freezing cinder blocks against her back don't help, either. She breathes in the scent of her girlfriend's hair, a mix of lavender and Bath and Body Works™ brand cocoa shea and-who-knows-what-else (not that it doesn't smell pleasant; the author just can't be bothered to go out, buy a tube of [this particular hair serum](https://www.bathandbodyworks.com/p/cocoshea-coconut-coconut-oil-hair-serum-023630173.html?cgid=hair-care#start=13) and then smell it). As she does this, a strand of said hair worms its way into her respiratory system. She sneezes.

“Rose, dear, I know you love smelling me, but please stop sneezing in my hair,” Kanaya, still half-asleep and in the middle of her nap, mumbles. She brushes her fingers through her hair, and gently pushes her girlfriend's face a bit away from her hair.

“My deepest apologies. Perhaps you should choose a less appealing shampoo brand?”

Now, as she begins to stir from her sleep, Kanaya snickers. “I'll go steal some of your brother's.”

Even though it's a joke, there's a moment of panic. “Oh, dear God, no! Pardon my language, dear, but _nobody_ likes that shit. Axe is the bane of noses everywhere, save for those of teenage boys.”

“Your brother is nearly twenty, is he not?” counters Kanaya, grinning, wickedly.

“I never said they had to be teenagers in a physical sense. Dave certainly qualifies, as he still stubbornly acts like a teenage boy in the throes of puberty.”

The comment draws a groggy laugh from Kanaya. A grin—which exposes her perfect teeth—crosses her face. “I'm sorry, you're absolutely right. Dave is an idiot.”

“Glad we can all agree on this particular factoid.” After a moment of thought, Rose carefully clambers over her girlfriend. She makes her way to the fridge, atop which she has set her teabags, and begins to brew herself a mug. “Would you like something to drink? Coffee?”

“Coffee sounds beautiful! Do we still have some of that vanilla creamer?”

“Yes, Doctor Coran's recommended coffee creamer! We still have some!” At this point, Rose pulls a small jar from the fridge. Inside is a specific mixture of vanilla extract, milk, and honey. At the same time, she pops a container into the Keurig. (Not that she support the Keurig model. It's wasteful, but it's incredibly convenient for College Life™.) Within the span of a few minutes, the room is an aromatic bubble of green tea, Himalayan coffee, and the coconut-scented conditioner Kanaya is now busy working into her hair. “Was your nap pleasant?”

“Absolutely! Enhanced only by your presence, of course.” A look—the sort of fluttery-lashed gaze love-struck people give one another—crosses Kanaya's face.

“Flattering.” Rose chuckles. As the beverages brew—the coffee and tea, brewing and steeping, respectively—she crawls back into bed. Wrapping her arms around Kanaya's waist, and resting her chin on her shoulder, she smiles. It's not a dramatic expression, rather, as is often true with her, it's a subtle change from her usual, passive look. “Would you like to take _another_ nap?”

“I'd love to, but we have classes, remember?”

“Perhaps _after_ that, then?”

“That sounds ideal.” Kanaya, too, smiles. She runs her fingers through Rose's hair. Some of the coconut conditioner rubs off in the process, but both women are aware that neither really cares. Right now, they simply savor the time they have together.


	33. The Shape of Water

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **[The Shape of Water](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HA8dDFFvOUw)** by Alexandre Desplat (2017)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is just davekat fluff. merry christmas.

The building is the epitome of glass abomination. Massive skylights are dotted over the sheer tin roofs, and most of the walls are comprised of floor-to-ceiling windows, through which **DAVE STRIDER** can see various activities occurring. In one room, a group of people are doing adaptive yoga; another room hosts row after row of what can be best described as stationary bikes on steroids; other rooms are little more than glorified hospital rooms; and, to Dave's amazement, there's even a pool. (In the distance, beyond the pool, Dave is fairly certain he can also see a hot tub.) According to Karkat, this latter room is where they're going today.

Right now, however, the two men sit, side-by-side, outside of the facility. They're a few minutes early, and both have opted to eat their shitty McDonald's meal, picked up on the way to the rehab place, before entering. Dave sits on a bench, with Karkat beside him, in the shade of a bare oak tree.

The ground us muddy and damp, and the towel in Karkat's lap is soaked with wet earth and tiny pebbles, all of which have rubbed off of his hands. “Wheelchairs suck when it comes to hand cleanliness, just so you know,” Karkat grumbles. He rubs his hands off, on the last clean corner, before deciding they're clean enough to use for eating. “I guess a little dirt won't fucking kill me, but it's annoying. Pebble? In my mouth? How about no.”

“Fair enough.” Dave finds himself wondering if he, too, should have brought a towel. Or, maybe, a whole roll of them. By now, he's finished his Big Mac. He's now working on his hot chocolate. “What'll you be doing in the pool, anyhow? Some sort of hot, sweaty calisthenics? Water yoga?”

“It's a lot less interesting than that,” Karkat rolls his eyes. “No, I'll just be walking. It's easier on joints and muscles underwater, since water has its own clusterfuck of physical properties.”

There's a pause. The wind whistles down the street, picking up leaves and pine needles and whipping them into the air. In the distance, a murder of crows stir, then take flight, bursting from the shadow of a naked willow tree. It looks, in some ways, like fireworks, or smoke from a gun.

Then, as suddenly as it began, it ends. Karkat clears his throat, and speaks up, “You don't have to come in with me, you know.”

“Don't bother me none,” Dave shrugs. He leans back in the bench, and lets the cool winds wash over him.

 

Aranea is, by most definitions, small. She's relatively short (though she's still taller than Karkat, even at his standing height), thin, and has a demeanor somewhat reminiscent of Jade. Her glasses are, like her calm smile, an almost omnipresent feature on her face, and her complexion is the perfect medium between Karkat's dark skin and Dave's pale. Her hair is neatly help back with bobby pins, and her lips are stained with a subtle blue lipstick. Nonetheless, she's strong. She easily lifts Karkat from his chair, alone, and has no problems gently manipulating his lower body during the stretches at the beginning of the session.

After said stretches, which have lasted around twenty minutes, everyone heads to the pool. At the entry to the room, there's a long corridor of changing rooms. While Karkat immediately departs, to change into the swim trunks he'd preemptively packed, Aranea simply takes off her pants and jacket, revealing that she'd been wearing a simple blue one piece swimsuit beneath them. After stowing her belongings in a locker, which bears her name on the plaque near its center, she turns to Dave, offering a pair of generic red swim trunks. “If you don't mind, I'd like for you to join the session today. Karkat was quite reluctant to even come to this appointment, so I think having some support will help him.”

Dave doesn't hesitate to accept the offer. He takes the trunks, and wanders off to a nearby changing stall. While he initially plans to simply exit after he's done, he decides to take the opportunity to use the toilet inside. Thus, by the time he's changed and ready, he finds that everyone is already in the pool.

Karkat is busy floating on his back, aimlessly wandering around the perimeter of the pool. Considering the fact that his left leg does little, with his right (the knee still sporting a watertight compression bandage) doing most of the work, it's a bit surprising how fast he moves. By the time Dave has entered the pool, by the stairs, on which Aranea is casually lounging, he's made it around the last quarter of the pool's perimeter. He stops, allows his lower body to sink, until he's treading water with his arms, and offers an expectant look While his left foot touches the floor of the pool at this depth, he keeps high right knee slightly bent, so that he can remain floating.

“I'm going to have you start the session with Dave today, Karkat,” Aranea supplies, her smile growing slightly. (Simultaneously, Karkat looks about ready to drop dead.) “Dave,” she steps forward, so that she's just a bit to the right of Karkat, and gestures the the spot directly behind him, “Come around here, and support Karkat's weight. You can hold onto him around his waist or chest, but you want to feel him putting weight down on you.”

After following these instructions, Dave nods. “So, what? We're doin’ a little ballroom dancing?” he cracks.

Karkat groans.

Aranea rolls her eyes. “I suppose you could say that. What you're doing is holding his weight, with the water, so that he isn't placing pressure on his joints. Let him do most of the work, and only help if you feel it's absolutely necessary.”

“Do I _have_ to help him?” Dave smirks.

“Yeah, the first step is to push my head under the fucking water and drown me,” quips Karkat, “Why do I date you?”

Another laugh. “I suppose you don't. When he takes a step, move forward, but along the yellow line on the pool floor. That way, we stay at the proper depth for this exercise.” There's a brief break in conversation, during which Aranea swims around, until she's at the opposite end of the yellow line, which runs width-wise across the length of the pool (barring about a foot on eight side). After setting her feet down at this point, she concludes, “Move forward with Karkat. Keep an eye on his left side; that's the weaker of the two. The goal is to come to this side, turn around, and go back. Understood?”

“Roger, Houston.”

“Oh, just fucking kill me. If she'd put _you_ at the end, I'd at least have some motivation to get there and claw that stupid, simpering smirk off of your ugly face.” Despite his words, Karkat moves forward. As Aranea had predicted, his right leg moves easily. It glides forward under his own power, and he settles it cleanly on the pool floor, with Dave mirroring the motion and the appropriate weight shift. When he goes to move his left, however, little happens. For about a solid minute, it remains in place, with its tightly curled toes resting against the top of Dave's corresponding foot. A huff of frustration escapes Karkat.

Dave offers a gentle push with his own foot, so that the leg moves forward.

In the span of a second, there's a flash of surprise, then annoyance, and, finally, appreciation. “Wow. One whole fucking foot, Strider. Wait. No. I didn't mean that as a pun. _Quit snickering, stupid._ Why did I bring you?”

“You didn't.” Dave notices that distracting Karkat seems to ease the process. While he doesn't begin to walk across the pool on his own, his left leg seems slightly more cooperative, if only in sporadic and unpredictable bursts. He continues speaking and moving ahead in the same fashion. “ _I_ brought _you_ , then your physical therapist told me to get my ass into this water, or else she'd yeet my ass into next Sunday.”

“She didn't say that,” grumbles Karkat.

At the same time, Aranea calls over to the pair, “I never said that. It sounds fun, though!”

“See!? She said it'd be fun to yeet me into next Sunday. And, then, what? You'd be all sad and shit, because your gorgeous boyfriend would be missing for a week!” Though the thought never crosses his mind, Dave smiles. It's a brief moment, but the expression is genuine. “And—OW!” Dave pauses, having had a bony heel slammed into his shin. It wasn't exactly painful, but it was shocking. “You did that on purpose, asshole. I'm divorcing you. Yes, hello, operator of 1-800-GOT-REKT? I'm filing for divorce.”

“We both know that wouldn't hurt a baby, Strider. Cease and desist with the fifth grade level dramatics. Besides, we're not married. You can't divorce me if we're _not fucking married_ you absolute shithead.”

“Maybe not, but we're halfway ‘cross the pool, dude.”

Karkat pauses, then lets forth a soft laugh—not a chuckle. “You're right. You've been verbally assaulting my poor, bleeding eardrums for so long that I've forgotten what time is. Congratulations, Shinji, you didn't get in the robot. You blew the fucker up, desecrated its goddamned corpse, and then jumped ship to a completely different fucking franchise, thus breaking reality, itself. Are you happy, now?”

“Nice anime reference, weeb trash.”

“ _You're_ the one who forced me to watch that shitty show.”

“It's the circle of stupidity, dude. Y'know. The circle of life. And it rules us all. Through the fuckin’ robot, and John's retroactive brainwashing. Blame him. He showed it to me, I showed it to you, and now we're both together in this fuckin’ pool. What a great life cycle that was, huh? From tiny-ass little larvae to full-fledged butterfly weebs. Fly away, little weebs!”

“God, you're insufferable.” There's a fondness in Karkat's voice, a softness that goes against the actual statement.

“Am I really insufferable? You seem to be suffering through me right now, and you're not dead. So, obviously, I'm not literally insufferable; it's all in your head.”

“Stop rhyming.”

“You can't stop the sick beats, Karkat.”

“How about I rip your mouth off of your fucking—”

Aranea interrupts before the empty threat can conclude. “Well, Karkat, congrats! You've made it to the end in record time. Dave, I hate to say it, but annoying him seems to help. Keep it up!” She offers a thumbs up, then darts to the other side of the pool, so that the process can continue.

Karkat, meanwhile reaches back. There's a brief moment, where his fingers touch Dave's cheek, and words are exchanged without speaking. There a sort of begrudging gratitude, and an affirmation of a rapidly burgeoning relationship. Then, the moment ends. “Well, you heard her, Strider. Continue to verbally wring my ass out, like yesterday's dirt-fucking laundry.”

* * *

At a time that happens to be several hours later, after nightfall, **KARKAT VANTAS** rests in his bed. His muscles ache, but that's normal. In fact, considering how well the session went, he's surprised they don't ache more. Normally, he'd be using a heating pad to soothe his sore body, but he finds the radiating body heat of a certain pale blond in his bed to be enough.

“You're a fucking stubborn idiot, you know that, right?” whispers Karkat, not meaning a single word that comes from his mouth. There's a small, relaxed smile on his face, and a pleasant warmth in his stomach.

Beside him, Dave shrugs. His expression is as enigmatic as always, but his voice betrays his smug sense of satisfaction. “Hey, if that helps you deal with shit, sure. You ain't exactly wrong, either. But, and this is a but butt so big it's probably been pumped so full of Botox that it's classified as an illegal water bottle by airplane security, I'm _your_ fucking stubborn idiot.”

“You're right,” sighs Karkat, resigning himself to fate. He rolls over, wraps his arms around Dave, and rests his chin against his shoulder. “I hate to say it, but I'm not too pissed about it, either.”

“An‘ I hate to admit it, but I'm not, either,” yawns Dave.

Karkat carefully slides his boyfriend's shades off of his face. He sets them aside, on the bedside table, before returning to his former position. “You're up past your bedtime, Strider. Time to go to bed.”

“Mmm. But I don't wanna.” Dave's words slur, and his voice fades rapidly. He rubs his eyes, lets forth a final yawn, and settles into bed. Within a few seconds after saying these words, he's asleep.

And, surrounded only by the sounds of night and the gentle hum of smooth jazz from his music player, Karkat, too, falls asleep, with his arms around his boyfriend and a contented smile on his face.


	34. Forward to Time Past

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [**Forward to Time Past**](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cruSfTUmK3A) by John Williams, from _Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban_ (2004)

Thanksgiving break comes quickly. Too quickly. On Wednesday, everyone says their goodbyes to one another and heads off, to their few days of family drama and domestic bliss. Karkat is picked up by his mother, who mentions something about his car being repaired and out of the shop.

And, now, DAVE STRIDER stands before a familiar, dirty door, and holds a familiar, rusting key. He unlocks the door, steps into a dark apartment, and instinctively reaches to the umbrella stand, from which he pulls a sword. “Okay, Bro,” he calls, his heart racing, “I’m home.”

The creaking of wood. The smell of cigar smoke and metal polish. A low, cold laugh. “You really thought you could walk in here and I’d just forgive you?”

Theres a brief moment of hesitation, wherein Dave wonders if he’s made the right decision. He feels metal slicing through his arm; he knows the pain well. He knows a sizable chunk has likely been taken from his right bicep, but it’s not a serious wound. He feels a steel toed boot come in contact with the side of his left knee, and he falls. A kick to the head. He drops his own weapon.

As the metal clatters against the hardwood floor, the front door slams open. A man—tall, thin, bespectacled, brunette—enters the room, gun raised. He barks an order, which Dave can’t hear above the ringing in his own ears.

Yet, above the ringing, he hears it. Metal against wood. The distinct clicking of locking handcuffs.

A stranger helps him to his feet, and begins dressing his wound. She tells him her name is Allura, and that she works with Adam. She tells him everything will be alright and, for the first time in his life, Dave Strider believes it.

\-- turntechGodhead [TG] began pestering tentacleTherapist [TT] at 14:02! --

TG: oh shit 2:02 make a fuckin wish  
TG: and guess who's in jail

TT: First of all, I believe that you're supposed to “make a wish” at 2:22, not 2:02, Dave. Secondly, if the answer to the second question is “you”, I will not be bailing you out again. I have used up my allotted lifetime allowance of brother-bailing.

TG: ouch that's harsh  
TG: and you only bailed me out once when i got caught stealing a gallon of apple juice at the store and they wanted to scare me into not stealing so they threw me in jail for the night  
TG: the answer to the question is bro by the way

TT: Oh. Really? That's wonderful, Dave! Hopefully he stays there!

TG: oh he will  
TG: anywho i'm in the hospital right now getting a gaping wound in my arm region flushed with wound washing juice  
TG: y'know peace sign emoji and all that dank shit  
TG: can you call up karkat and tell him to get his ass down here  
TG: i would but he blocked me for calling him karkles and he hasn't remembered to unblock me  
TG: also tell him to bring some food because i'm fuckin starving

TT: That is an incredibly long list of demands, Dave. I'm not sure I can make them all happen, but I will contact Karkat for you.  
TT: Congratulations on the arrest of your legal guardian, by the way. Please imagine, if you will, that the screen has burst into colorful confetti and a smiling balloon is now blithely drifting to the top of your screen, as it does on Facebook when one says any variation of “congratulations”.

TG: thanks i'm imagining it now

TT: No problem.

\-- tentacleTherapist [TT] ceased pestering turntechGodhead [TG] at 14:10! --

 

About twenty minutes after this Pesterchum exchange, as Dave is released from having his wounds stitched shut, and as he rounds the corner to the waiting room of the ER, he's greeted by a familiar face. Karkat, framed by the automatic sliding doors of the hospital, with a look that says “I will beat your ass to a pulp” etched firmly on his features. He wheels forward, unconcerned by the confusion of onlookers, until he's nearly bowled over his boyfriend, before speaking up. “What the literal fuck, in all of God's green and blue fucking earth, did you just _do_ , Dave?”

He knows he should focus on the issue at hand. Having his bicep sliced open by an unhinged so-called guardian isn't a normal occurrence—at the very least, it isn't something _most_ people are used to—but, the normalcy of the situation for Dave is a bit overpowering. What he clings to, instead, is, “Hot fuckin’ shit on a carnival corndog stick, we're finally in first name territory!?”

“That's it?” Karkat pauses. He wipes his hands on his knees, covering the faded blue jeans fabric with dirt in the process, and shakes his head. “I came all the way down here, with a fucking Big Mac dripping putrid, filthy, absolutely awful cow grease all over my goddamned bag, thinking that you were bleeding out on an operating table, and all your infinitesimally tiny, feebly little thinkpan can come up with is, ‘Wrow, we're on a  _first-name_ basis’!? I know absolutely nothing about what is happening with  _my_ fuck-nozzle douchecanoe of a boyfriend, so here I am driving this hunk of steaming suburban soccer mom trash down the highways at speeds far above the legal speed limit, praying to every deity I may or may not believe in that I won't get a ticket, and, when I get here, my stupid twink of a boyfriend is standing here, smirking like the absolute dumbass he is, and asking me, if we're on a first name basis.” At the conclusion of this rant, Karkat lets forth a low, guttural growl. He inches forward, grabs Dave's hand, and pulls him down, to his level, before holding him in a tight, warm embrace. “I was fucking worried about you, Dave.”

Unsure of how to handle such a copious outpouring of emotions, Dave distracts himself in every way possible. He feels Karkat's soft hairs against his cheek, and inhales his distinctive scent. After a few moments, he replies, his voice softer than he can recall it ever being in recent years, “So, what you're saying is we  _are_ on first-name-base?”

“Oh my fucking God, Dave, shut up. Can we just have  _one goddamned minute_ of maturity, here?” There's a hint of a snicker in Karkat's voice. He lets go and, as Dave pulls away, it becomes obvious that he's been crying. His eyes are red and wet, yet there's a wide, heart-wrenchingly adorable grin spread across his features. “What happened?”

Dave shrugs, but he realizes that he has to tell him. At some point, he supposes he'll have the tell the world. “C'mon,” he urges. He buries his hands in his pockets and walks to the exit, stopping every so often to look over his shoulder and ensure that Karkat is following. Once past the threshold of the hospital, he sticks a cigarette between his lips, but he doesn't light it. He knows how much Karkat hates when he smokes, and he rightfully despises when he callously smokes around him. Instead, he lets it hang from his mouth, unlit, as a sort of stress relief. He finds himself biting into the soft filter, releasing a taste of paper with hints of tobacco.

And, once the pair is safely in Karkat's repaired van, he lets the doors open. All the secrets he's kept, the pain he's endured, and the loneliness he's carried so deeply within his very soul, come pouring out, like the rush of water through a busted pipe. Dave speaks as he never has before, with a candidness that even he is surprised to be hearing from himself. He talks about all the nights alone, at home, in a cramped bedroom, stuffed with meaningless apology gifts, with no lights or access to anything beyond the sounds of screaming and fighting. For the first time in his life, he tells his story and, by the end of it all, he feels free.

“You understand, now?” he asks, watching intently as the sun sets over the suburban skyline. The car has been turned off for about an hour, yet both he and Karkat remain inside, running on the residua heat from its previous idling.

Karkat nods, slowly, before running his fingers through his hair. “Yeah,” he breathes. He leans over, picks up the remnants of a long-since-eaten McDonalds meal, and disposes of it inside the carryout bag. “I get it. Guess you've always been just a little fucked over, haven't you?”

Dave responds with a nervous laugh. “Yeah. Guess so.” By now, it dawns upon him that all his things are still in his car, which is still parked at his apartment ( _former_ , he reminds himself,  _his former apartment_ ) complex. It also strikes him that he probably won't have time to return there before dark, and that, in fact, he doesn't exactly want to leave. “Do you mind if I stay with you for the night? I'll fuck right on back to my shitty abode tomorrow, so that I can clear it out, but I really don't feel like being alone. At least, not now.”

“Of course you can, you twit. Why else would I have driven us back to my house and  _not_ the apartment?”

Against his innate programming, Dave Strider smiles, and he finds that it feels... pretty fucking nice, actually.

* * *

**LOCAL MAN ARRESTED, ACCUSED OF ALMOST TWENTY YEARS' WORTH OF ABUSE**

SKAIA GAZETTE - A Skaia City resident is facing a variety of serious charges for years of domestic abuse. Additional charges are also being pressed for drug-related offenses, including possession, dealing, and manufacturing of multiple varieties of illegal substances. According to legal analysis and comments from officials involved in the case, it is “extremely likely, almost impossible” for these charges to be seen through to sentencing.

Joseph B. D. Strider was arrested early in the afternoon of November 26th. While an investigation into the case is still ongoing, neighbors of the offending individual have spoken out, telling reporters that they often dismissed the fighting noises coming from the room, as Mr. Strider publicly expresses an admiration of action films. On this particular day, the fighting was stopped by the police, who entered the apartment and apprehended both the suspect and a victim, who was taken to the hospital. The identity of the victim is being withheld to protect their privacy, but officials say that the individual has been treated, and was released with minor injuries.

Residents of the Colonial Courts apartment complex, where Mr. Strider lived, have noted that the suspect in this case was a loner, with a history of producing pornographic films. Investigation by Skaia Gazette's staff have revealed that Mr. Strider also has a lengthy criminal background, including charges of assault with a deadly weapon, multiple counts of driving under the influence, and indecent exposure. None of these charges are related to the current case, but are being considered as evidence of a history of such offenses.

“I have always suspect that Joseph was a rotten man,” one resident, an elderly woman by the name of Rosalind Baker, said of the case, “I never believed that he would do something this horrible, though.”

Many people have spoken out about the matter, both publicly and through social media, using the hashtag “#skaiascandal”. Of these numerous reports, not a single complementary thing has been said on the behalf of the accused. Similarly, residents of Colonial Courts have said that Mr. Strider was a “stubborn, confrontational” man, whose activities around the building have been both well documented and consistently discouraged. One resident, who wishes to remain anonymous, notes that, at various points throughout Mr. Strider's period of residence in the building, he posted explicit advertisements for his pornography work on the public memo board. In all cases, these were promptly removed.

Social worker Adam Shirogane, husband of the locally famous and youthful computer science professor, Takashi Shirogane, is serving as the victim's legal representative. Mr. Strider will be represented by his personal lawyer, Manfred von Karma.

The prosecution hopes that Mr. Strider will receive a combined sentence of fifty years or more, while the defense argues that the accusations of abuse and drug possession are false.

We will continue to update this story as new information comes in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tfw the actual plot only lasts like 12,000 words of a 60,000+ word fic [pensive emoji]


	35. Christmas 1915

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **[Christmas 1915](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JG3l-OBdcPI)** by Celtic Thunder, 2010

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It’s valentine’s day. Have a bonus chapter.

Let's be real for a minute. A sizeable time skip in this particular work of fiction is inevitable. It's unavoidable. It's as sure to happen as the Earth is as sure to turn and continue running its pointless little ugly fake-circle laps around the sun. We all knew it was coming, we just didn't know when. Well, everyone, _now_ we know when, and the answer to this question—the question that has certainly been on everyone's minds, as it has been on the narrator's mind for quite some time—is “now”.

And, when is “now”?

“Now”, in this sense, is translated as precisely one month and a few days later, on the twenty-third of December, of some unknowable-for-reasons-of-future-proofing-this-work year. “Now” is exactly twenty days from twentieth Dave's birthday, an occasion that a certain man by the name of Karkat just happened to not be able to attend, because he caught a stomach bug and ended up being too busy puking in a trash can to do much of anything. “Now” is the warmth of an opulent fire, in the midst of a fancy-ass home, and in the arms of two absolute idiots.

“You're not still salty that I wasn't at your shitty party, are you, Dave?” Karkat mutters, running his fingers through his boyfriend's hair. There's a soft smile on his face, offset by furrowed brows, and a tension in his shoulders that can't be masked, no matter how hard he tries. “From what I heard from John and Pidge, all I missed was a whole lot of underage drinking, which I am medically unadvised from indulging in, anyhow.”

Sporting an obviously fake pout, and with his arms crossed stubbornly across his chest, **DAVE STRIDER** replies with an indignant huff. “You missed my _birthday party_ , Karkat. You missed. My fuckin’ birthday party. That is a high ‘n’ serious offense, buddy. Might even be punishable by death by cessation of all personal communications.”

“Dave, no one over the age of twelve gives a fuck about people missing their birthdays. You didn't even _plan_ the party. John did. John planned and set up the entire surprise party, and my only role was to lead your fucking gullible ass into it, like a bear into a trap.” Karkat laughs. He rolls his eyes and reaches into his pocket, pulling out a small box, wrapped in bright red paper. It's about the size of a carton of cigarettes, but, once he places it in Dave's hands, the solidness of it makes it obvious that it isn't. (Not that it would be. Karkat would be as eager to give Dave a cigarette as he'd be to rip out his own tongue.) “Are you going to open it, or are you just going to eye-fuck it with your piercing gaze, hoping to telepathically rip open my shitty wrapping job?”

Only now realizing that he's been vacantly staring at his tardy gift, Dave begins to open it. For no reason in particular, he does so carefully. On Rose's suggestion, he's started to _think about_ possibly _maybe_ doing some scrapbooking, and he'll be keeping some of this wrapping paper, thank you very much. He sees a small wooden box, and, after sliding it open, he finds himself holding a golden pocket watch. The front is emblazoned with the image of an eight-toothed gear, within which the initials ‘D. S.’ are inscribed. When he opens it, he finds a standard, albeit a bit ornate, clock face.

“I dunno', it just reminded me of you,” Karkat shrugs. “It's a weird gift, I know, but...”

In all honesty, aside from rare gifts from John, Jade, or Rose, this is the first time Dave has received anything that has been truly given out of someone's heart. It's something that's unique, that's personal to him. “No, dude, I love it. This shit is so off the hook that it's on the shelf.”

Karkat, looking quite pleased with himself, snickers. “I'm not sure what that means, but okay. I'll take it as a complement.” His lips briefly touch Dave's cheek. “Happy birthday, you insufferable dumbass.”

“Thanks, nerd.” Dave settles into Karkat's arms, feeling the softness of his skin and the warmth of his body against his own. As is becoming increasingly common, he smiles. It's a genuine, unironic, and wholly satisfied smile, and, still, it feels fucking fantastic.

* * *

Somewhere else, miles away, **ROSE LALONDE** is knitting. She's knitting a very, very long scarf, and she's been doing so for quite a while. In fact, she's worked on this scarf for a few months. It is now almost the length she's aiming for—six feet—and the evenly spaced bars of alternating red and grey are finally coming together. At her side, Kanaya is also knitting, albeit not as quickly as her girlfriend.

“Damn. How do you go so fast? I don't see how you're managing to work so quickly!” whines Kanaya. She leans over, so that she's looking over Rose's shoulder, and narrows her eyes at the rapidly moving needles. “What is your secret, Lalonde?”

“Lalonde?” Rose chuckles. “Are we using Karkat's naming conventions, now? I practice! Here,” she moves, so that she's next to Kanaya, and takes her hands, “Let me show you.”

In this manner, Rose guides both of them through several rows of rapid stitches. “At a point, it just becomes a counting game. You remember the motions for the stitches, but you must practice them, first. Patience, dear.”

“I believe that I have been patient with the product, but this is just ridiculous.” Kanaya tuts. Apparently having had her share of knitting for the day, she sets aside her work. Her arms fold across her chest, and she leans against Rose. Again, she watches her girlfriend's movements. “You're prolific.”

“I suppose that's all just a matter of time.” Rose shrugs. A smile graces her lips, and she gives Kanaya a swift, gentle kiss on the cheek.

* * *

**LANCE SANCHEZ** stands before a slightly crooked Christmas tree, brows furrowed, arms folded. He hums thoughtfully, and holds a single ornament—a small plastic figurine of a wind-up robot—in his right hand. He moves it up and down in space, trying his best to find the perfect spot to hang it. Here? No, that's too low. There? No, too close to other ornaments. Maybe? Nope, not that.

From behind Lance, sitting on the Sanchez' ‘L’-shaped sectional sofa, Keith groans. “Oh my fucking God, Lance, just pick a stupid branch. How hard is it to hang a kitschy ornament, anyhow?”

“There is a very delicate art to hanging ornaments, Keith. A very, _very_ delicate art.” Lance says this without turning around. He chews on his lip and rubs his chin with his other hand. “You have to make sure that all of the ornaments are up, and that you can see all of them.”

“You'll never see them all!” Keith counters. “It's not like the tree—” After Lance presses a button, the tree begins to rotate, and Keith is forced to admit defeat. His mouth slams shut, and his carefully planned talking points about the futility of his boyfriend's intense form of ornament hanging are all blown to tiny, ceramic bits.

“Oh! There we go!” The tree stops spinning. Lance reaches up, high into the air, and places the ornament near the top. After he's done, he dusts off his hands and nods approvingly at the now-fully-decorated artificial tree, as if it were his son, and said son had just gotten perfect scores on his metaphorical SAT's. “Absolutely beautiful. Gorgeous. This? This is the most beautiful tree I've ever seen.”

“It's a pretty nice tree.” Keith shrugs.

 

To be honest,  **KEITH KOGANE** has never really celebrated a traditional Christmas. His childhood, spent being shuffled in and out of foster homes, was far too transient for him to have enjoyed a real Christmas. Even after he found a permanent foster home, with the Shirogane family, he found little time for Christmas. Neither Shiro nor his parents were keen on Christmas; sure, they celebrated it, but they didn't really do the whole decorating thing.

So, as a whole, this experience is new. And, really, there's a charm to it. There's a wonderful whimsy in this strangely decked out fake Douglas fir. The tiny little gnome ornaments, and the colorful bulbs, and the kitschy collectible spiky white children (Snow Angels, apparently) complement the sparkling lights. Hell, there's even something nice about the rainbow spotlights shining on the tree. The longer he looks, the more he sees.

There, it's a tiny plaster cast of Lance's hand when he was two. A red matchbox firetruck toy, strung up on a green hook, and hung on a tree. Buried between branches, there's a little photo of the Sanchez family's first dog (Casey, apparently). The tree is more than just a collection of oddities and conflicting styles, it's the story of a family.

“You like it?” Lance asks, nudging Keith in the side.

The other man nods. He buries his hands in his pockets. He's seen the tree a few times; he's lived with Shiro for six years, and he's known Lance for the same amount of time. He'd met him online, in a chatroom, and he'd been sent photos of the home during Christmas, but this is the first time he's seen it in person. (After all, Lance literally lives halfway across the country, in the mythical land of California.)

“Oh!” Lance speaks up, suddenly, and with renewed vigor. He reaches into his pocket, and pulls out what appears to be a standard spherical ornament. The body is red, with tiny blue fingerprints dotted on its surface, but, when he turns it, there's a flat spot, as if it were cut into. Upon closer inspection, Keith realizes that, mounted onto this section, there's a photo of him. “Marco and I made this for you. It's a tradition in the family to give everyone who makes it this deep into the Sanchez clan their own ornament.” As if to emphasize this, he gestures to Pidge's ornament (the same format as Keith's but green) and Hunk's (which, unlike the others, is a yellow cat). His grin widens, and he hands the ornament over to his boyfriend. “There you go! Throw it onto the tree! I don't even care where!”

Keith, too, smiles. He steps forward, examines the scene before him, and ultimately decides to hang his ornament next to the tiny effigy of a World War II fighter plane, which he's been told symbolizes Lance. “There. Is that acceptable to the tree authority?”

“A meaningful spot, I see. You'll learn the art of tree decorating one day, though.“

“Oh, shut up,” laughs Keith.

* * *

Five days pass in the time it takes to read twelve words.

For **DAVE STRIDER** , Christmas morning is marked by light snow flurries, though none of the snow sticks, and the realization that Karkat is no longer in bed with him. It begins to the sound of Christmas music, the smell of hot cocoa, and the taste of peppermint, which seems to transfer straight from the air to his taste buds. According to the clock, it's 10:00 AM. Normally, at 10:00 AM on a Christmas, Dave would expect to be having his ass handed to him by a drunken Bro. Now, though?

Now, as he scrambles downstairs, clad in some of Karkat's old sweatpants, several inches too short for him, and a borrowed luxury bathrobe, (which is, shall he mention, the softest thing he's ever worn,) he's greeted, instead, to the sight of Karkat's family sitting before a pile of presents. While they don't have a tree, they _do_ have gifts, and it's obvious that none of them have been opened.

“Took you long enough,” Karkat and his father say, simultaneously.

As a counterpoint to this, Kanaya's mother tuts. “Dave, dear! Good morning! We've waited to open the gifts until you woke up.” She gestures to the open spot on the sofa, beside Karkat, before offering a calming smile. “Karkat's been saving you a seat.”

“No one put their ass in this particular spot, so I guess that counts as saving a seat, now,” shrugs Karkat, smirking.

Regardless of the commentary, Dave settles into the designated spot. He snuggles against Karkat, and watches as the family begins opening their gifts.

Karkat's father is given a new tool kit, some formal shirts, a shaving kit in a case shaped like an old-fashioned doctor's bag, and a variety of vinyl Indian pop albums. Karkat's mother (or, as she's instructed Dave to call her, Dolorosa) receives chocolates, some romance films, a book about the origins of various Indian spices, and some toiletries. For Karkat, the holiday has brought new video games, another pair of fingerless protective gloves, a spiffy pair of formal shoes, and the BluRay of _Titanic_. Yet, once everyone has opened their gifts, Dave notices that three are still left.

“Dear,” Dolorosa says, “Those are for you.”

“Really?” Dave finds himself pausing. He can't remember receiving any Christmas presents. Not once in his life, save for the few Rose, John, and Jade managed to smuggle to him. And, even then, only a handful of them managed to survive Bro's wrath. “For me?”

“That's what she said, right?” grunts Mr. Vantas. (Clearly, Karkat takes after his father.) “We each got you something. Hope you like it, since I don't really know you that well. I'm just going by what Karkat's told me.”

Dave nods. He begins opening his gifts, once again ensuring that some of the paper is preserved. He finds that Mr. Vantas' gift is, not surprisingly, a shaving kit. He doesn't bother mentioning that he's one of those sort of perpetual peach fuzz guys; Striders have and will never be known for their facial hair. Dolorosa gave him an oddly charming music box. It depicts a bird on a tree stump, and the bird moves and “chirps” to the music when wound. While he's aware that he shouldn't like it, Dave finds the sheer fact that Karkat's mom thought he would funny enough to make him like it.

Finally, he picks up Karkat's gift. There's a pang of guilt in his gut. Karkat has said multiple times that he doesn't mind that Dave couldn't afford a present, but that doesn't make it any less of a blow to realize Karkat got him two gifts (one for his birthday, and this one). Beneath the elephant-studded wrapping paper, Dave finds another wooden box, but, inside of this one, he finds a pair of sunglasses. They're his usual style, with the front resembling traditional aviators, but the sides are thicker, and the arms are a bright, vivid cherry red. There's a slight wrap-around design, and small windows of tinted glass on either side prevent light from entering his peripheral vision. They've got a sort of “grandma's driving glasses” vibe, but sleeker, and more akin to “sick motorcyclist shades”.

“I thought you might like a new pair. You seem to wear the same ones all the time, and I found these online. Rated for some ridiculous amount of UV protection, so,” as Dave tries on the shades, Karkat grins, “You like them?”

Pocketing his new shaving set, and setting aside his chirping music box, Dave nods. “Love them, dude.” He throws his arms around Karkat's shoulder, embraces him, and allows a pleasant, encompassing warmth to spread through his body.

Somewhere, in the back of his mind, there's a thought: _This is what family feels like._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay, so this is the _official_ end of this fic. it's the end of the main story, at least, you know. the story that lasted for like 1/6th of the entire thing, but i still have a few ideas to hammer out, so we'll be seeing a little more of these kids. namely, we'll going _into their future_. ooooooh.


	36. EPILOGUE I: Good Day Sunshine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [**Good Day Sunshine**](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ws6CF4S82nY) by The Beatles, 1966

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yes. epilogue i. as in epilogue part one. this is all going to be presented as a collection of snippets of notes and newspapers. as a sort of author note, yes, dave strider took up scrapbooking, and all of these are _absolutely_ in his scrapbook. note that the epilogues aren't going to necessarily be in chronological order. this is where it's going to flip a few narrative convention shits.

**MAN CHARGED WITH ALMOST TWENTY YEARS OF ABUSE GIVEN LIFE SENTENCE**  
SKAIA GAZETTE - A jury has found Joseph B. D. Strider, 42, guilty of multiple drug-related charges and nearly twenty years' worth of child abuse. The charges against Strider were brought forward in November, by the victim and younger brother of the accused. Victim David L. Strider, 20, released a statement, thanking the public for their support and the subsequent sentence. “I'm incredibly relieved. Really. I won't have to worry about him again. Can't say that I feel sorry for him,” the statement read, in part.

Officials have expressed a concern for Mr. Striders safety in prison, citing the hostility of fellow inmates. He will be held in solitary confinement, as per the recommendation by prosecutors.

Throughout his trial, Joseph B. D. Strider expressed his frustrations with the legal system. In his closing statement, which he opted to deliver by himself, without the advice of his lawyer, Manfred von Karma, he told the jury to “go [expletive] themselves” before saying that he should be able to “raise his stupid [expletive] son however he [expletive] wants.” At one point during the three month trial, much of which was not witnessed by the victim, Mr. Strider threatened the judge with a sword. He was subdued during another hearing, during which he attempted to fistfight his own attorney.

* * *

Dearest Brother,  
I'm writing to invite you to my wedding. As you might guess, I will be tying the proverbial knot with Kanaya. Our date is set to three weeks after graduation, and our ceremony will not be large. You are obviously allowed to bring Karkat, and both John and Jade are also invited. However, as we have only one piece of fine parchment paper to write on, you're the one getting the announcement. I hope you feel, deep in your heart, the highest honor that is symbolized by this piece of incredibly expensive paper, wedged unceremoniously under your dorm room door.

In lieu of gifts, Kanaya and I ask that you bring something strange from Goodwill, and we will use our trinkets as decor for our apartment. I _will_ see you there; there is no expecting here.

With All the Love My Shriveled Little Heart Can Send,  
Rose Lalonde

* * *

My Favorite Insufferable Shithead,  
I hate to say I miss you, but I miss you. It's lonely in New York City, and the whole city smells like fucking meat. How that is even possible is a point I don't want to dwell on, as I'm sure there's a disgusting, terrible reason behind it. There has to be. People don't just naturally ooze the scent of pastrami. That's just not how nature works.

Working for the Pliskin Law Group is fun and all, but the travel is killing me. And I mean that literally and in the sense that it's making me brain turn to a putrid, awful cesspool of bullshit. I hate being so far from you, and Rose, and Kanaya, and, fuck, I even miss that sniveling little fuck-wit, John. (And tell him he still owes me $20 for that tank of gas I used picking him up in the middle of nowhere a few weeks ago. He sucks at camping.)

I have a letter of resignation ready.

Adam offered me a job, and I'll be coming home to join the Medium team. I'll see you soon, but I'll probably still be stuck in this claustrophobic's nightmare hell when this letter gets to you.

I'm writing a letter because there's nothing else to fucking do here, alone, in a shitty Best Western at the top of a random skyscraper. Don't text me asking me why I wrote a letter, dumbass, and thanks for reading,  
Karkat V. Strider

* * *

**VICTIM OF SKAIA CITY ABUSE SCANDAL ANNOUNCES NEW CHARITY**  
SKAIA GAZETTE - David L. Strider, 21, has publicly announced a joint effort with various local charities and donors to create a safe home for abuse victims. The Medium will be a two-story apartment building, which will offer free housing to anyone in abusive housing situations. Rooms will be opened to individuals over the age of eighteen, while counselling and legal advice, provided by the Shirogane-Altea law firm, will be available to minors. Financial backers of the project include the influential Vantas family, known for their work in the medical field, and the Shirogane family.

Arrangements are being made to find a suitable plot of land. Once this is procured, the construction is estimated to take about a year.

Mr. Strider's band, _Pensive Emoji_ will be holding a series of benefit concerts to raise money for the cause. Tickets will be $5 per person, standing room only at the Skaia City Racetrack. Performances will be held this Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, at 6:00 PM.

* * *

You're Invited!

Lance Sanchez and Keith Kogane invite you to attend their wedding, on October 31st.  
Ceremony begins at 4:30 PM, at the Hope's Peak Church, followed by a reception and dinner at the Chevrolet Center Ballroom.  
Dress code is formal costume, be at your spookiest!  
Keith would like to formally blame his soon-to-be-husband for the use of “It's your tenth birthday” party announcement cards as wedding invites. Lance went to Party City.

* * *

**THE MEDIUM CENTER OPENS IN SKAIA**  
SKAIA GAZETTE - A recent opening party was attended by a wide variety of Skaia's best and brightest. The Vantas and Shirogane families were among attendees of the ribbon-cutting for The Medium, an abuse shelter opened and managed by local musician David L. Strider, 23.

Mr. Strider first came to the attentions of many Skaia residents with the abuse scandal of his brother, Joseph B. D. Strider, who was charged with abusing the young man for almost twenty years and subsequently sentenced to life in prison. He recently graduated from Skaia University, and will be dedicating himself to running his new venture.

“Don't worry about the band, though,” he said, addressing fans of his musical group, _Pensive Emoji_ , “We'll still be playing, just not as frequently. Like always, all our proceeds will go to The Medium.”

* * *

**GROUP OF FRIENDS FOUNDS PROGRAMMING EDUCATION CENTER**  
SKAIA GAZETTE - A group of Skaia University graduates has founded a programming venture for underprivileged youths. The Voltron Coalition—backed by Johnathan Egbert, Katie “Pidge” Gunderson, Keith Kogane (of the Shirogane family), Hunk Ramsay, and Lance Sanchez—will be opening their first branch in conjunction with The Medium. Their goal is to offer accessible STEM enrichment to a wide segment of the population. While classes will be offered to all for a small fee, residents of The Medium will have free access to the group's programming education.

The announcement was made at the end of BattleFest, a medium-tier battle robot competition, in which the team of five recently competed. At the conclusion of the tournament, when the Voltron team was announced as winners, they revealed that their entry was a publicity stunt, meant to promote the emergent Voltron Coalition.

Donations are accepted by the group, and may be mailed in or submitted through their website. They are currently seeking additional tutors and instructors, and hope to be able to add a branch for robotics in the foreseeable future.

* * *

**UNLIKELY BID FOR REPRESENTATIVE SEAT FROM SKAIA ENDS IN DEFEAT**  
SKAIA CITY TIMES - Openly gay charity owner, David Lesgle Strider, 26, has come to an end. Despite a large amount of local support, Mr. Strider's campaign was ultimately defeated by the popular Democratic candidate, William “WV” Vincent in the primaries. Mr. Strider announced his campaign three months ago, during a concert by his band, _Pensive Emoji_. While Mr. Strider's campaign manager and husband, Karkat Vantas Strider, expressed disappointment, he noted that the campaign was more of an experiment than a serious effort.

Following his massive loss, Mr. Strider was found at his re-dubbed Anti-Victory Party, riding on a carousel in the mall food court chosen as the party's venue. When asked for comment on the matter, he said, “Y'know, I ain't too bothered by this. We tried our best, and it just turned out our best wasn't that great.” Commenting on his opponent, Mr. Strider laughed, adding, “Can't be mad at him. WV is cool as the other side of the Arctic penguin pillow. He gave me his number, actually, and we went and chummed it out at Dave and Busters.”

Mr. Strider was kind enough to both show and provide us a copy of a photo of him and WV playing air hockey at the aforementioned entertainment venue. This image is what we have used in our publication, unaltered.

* * *

**For the attention of David L. Strider**  
413 E. Point Pleasant St.  
The Medium Complex, Office Suite 312  
Skaia City, Virginia

I recently received your invitation to perform as the guest keyboardist during your cross-country farewell tour for _Pensive Emoji_ , and I'm not exactly sure why you even bothered asking if I would refuse the invite. What do you fucking think I'm going to do, stupid? I've already applied for time off from my office job, and I'll be at the airport, ready for takeoff to Houston, Texas on January 2nd.

Obviously, Lance will also be coming. Not sure if you accounted for that, but you probably did.

Sincerely,  
Keith Kogane-Sanchez

* * *

**END OF AN ERA AS THE MEDIUM GROWS EVEN BIGGER!**  
SKAIA CITY TIMES - The Medium, Skaia's own locally famous abuse relief center, has once again expanded its reach. An announcement has confirmed rumors of the beginnings of another addition, funded by the proceeds of a recent cross-country tour of _Pensive Emoji_. Fronted by The Medium president and founder, David Lesgle Strider, 30, the band's tour, titled the Drunken Mime's Farewell, marks end of the band's existence. Local resident Keith Kogane, brother of Takashi Shirogane, was enlisted on the tour as a guest musician (playing piano) and former _Pensive Emoji_ fan-turned-member.

“It sucks to be closing the doors on this band, ‘cause it was kind of my childhood dream to make a band. L'il baby Dave ran around all the time, dreaming of being a big rock star, but it turns out that wasn't what I was supposed to do. It's been fun, though. A big shout-out to the fans, who've followed us all the way from nerdy little highschoolers all the way to the totally mature adults we've all become,” Mr. Strider said of the group's disbandment. “We all want to go our own way, and I respect that. You gotta fly, spread your wings and flap off, into the sunset.”

He was incredibly pleased with the results of his tour, however, noting, “Our expansion is going to kick some [butt]. We're going to bust ground on the biggest, baddest, hottest new housing and care centers. We're opening doors to more therapy and outreach, and offering aid to similar nonprofits. Kitchens? We sure are adding those. The best local chefs you can find? They're going to be joining us, and cooking for a cause.”

The expansion is expected to begin construction within the next few weeks and open in the next year. The added functions Mr. Strider mentioned will be added gradually over the next two years.

From his hospital room, following a minor surgery, Mr. Strider's husband, Karkat Vantas Strider, also released a statement, saying, “[...] the expansions we're offering will benefit both old and new residents. No one will be barred from receiving new services, and we hope to bring only the best to our community.”

* * *

The postcard is of a standard size and paper weight. The corners are slightly worn away, and one side of the cardboard has been carefully bound to a sheet of cardstock, so that one can easily lift it and view the reverse, where the message is written. On the front, are the smiling faces of none other than Rose Lalonde and her wife, Kanaya. The pair are seated in an all-terrain vehicle, clad in short-sleeved shirts (Rose's reads “Kangaroo Jack was a great movie, and my brother made me wear this shirt, which he made”; Kanaya's is a more tasteful, simple design, showing a silhouette of Australia, with a light long-sleeve shirt beneath). Kanaya's hair is beneath her usual green hijab, and her jeans are coated in a dusting of red earth.

Both are grinning. Rose drives the car, and Kanaya is busy trying to take a photo of something the viewer of the card can't see. When later asked about the photo, Kanaya said that there wasn't actually anything there; the two just made a joint decision to pose like that. In fact, when the photo was taken, the car wasn't even moving. They'd gotten a friend of theirs to put a large film studio fan in front of the car, to make it _look_ like they were moving.

On the opposite side, penned in her trademark pink ink and slightly obscured by a fading postage mark, is the message. As can be expected, the handwriting is relatively small, and comprised of neat, looping cursive.

Dearest Brother,  
I'm sure you're aware that Kanaya and I have gone on an extended two-month vacation to the so-called “Down Under”. It is rather hot down here, but the air is dry. It reminds me of Texas, not that you have such fond memories of the state. So, perhaps, that wasn't the best example. Oh well. So far, I've been wearing your imbecilic custom-printed shirt as much as possible. I've enclosed photographic evidence within an envelope, which should arrive with or shortly after this postcard.

Might I mention that neither I nor Kanaya has ever actually seen the movie you reference? Because this is a fact that is true, and it is also something that will remain a fact, no matter how long I live. Try as you might to cajole me into breaking down, I will never watch _Kangaroo Jack_ with you, Karkat, or anyone else, for that matter.

Word has gotten to me of a recent development in your life, as well. I'd like to congratulate you and Karkat on welcoming a newly adopted daughter. I'm sure she'll be raised in the most ironic, loving, and incomprehensible environment possible. For now, however, I must go. Kanaya and I are going scuba diving with sharks, because we are unfettered by the likes of children. (No offense, simply a friendly sibling jab.)

From Your Cold-Hearted Harpy of a Sister,  
Rose Lalonde

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yes, i panic-named hunk as a ramsay. like gordon ramsay. i'm sorry.


	37. EPILOGUE II: Stay Gold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **[Stay Gold](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Y3QhA2WiyFI)** , by Stevie Wonder, from _The Outsiders_ (1983)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay! this is it, kids! this is the end! the final chapter of this fic! we're kinda jumping back a little, to when the main couples are married, but we're going in chronological order of marriage. the last part is obviously out of order, but it fits better with this chapter than with the one before this. i don't want to spoil; you'll see what i mean when you get there.

Invoking the narrative element of time, and then holding its head forcibly underwater until it's drowned itself, let's rewind.

The day is exactly three weeks after Skaia University's graduation, on June 23rd. The place is the Skaia City Courthouse, which, despite being the city's courthouse, is little more than a drab, rectangular, and wholly forgettable building in the middle of the city. It's sandwiched between two mid-rise mini-skyscraper-wannabes, and, at the time at which this particular scene begins, one of the main rooms is occupied by a small gathering of friends, family, and a pair whose names just happen to be **Rose Lalonde and Kanaya Maryam**.

We begin this narrative segment a few minutes late, just after vows have been said and the judge has recorded the civil marriage, and seconds after the penultimate kiss.

Despite the best efforts of Karkat Vantas, Dave Strider has already popped open an entire bottle of champagne. After the initial _pop_ , the contents begin to bubble over, all over the tile floor, while everyone in the room stares on in disbelief.

“What?” mutters Dave, his brows raised. “This is what you do when your sis gets married to her roommate, right? You pop a fuckin’ bubbly.”

“Not _in the courthouse_ , you skull-fucking douchelord,” growls Karkat, his face buried in his hands. “My God. I can't believe I'm set to marry _you_ in a year.”

“You know,” Kanaya says, smirking devilishly, ”That's ample time to back out, Karkat.”

At this juncture, John interrupts, looking incredibly panicked. “SHIT! You guys can't split! I already bought your wedding gift!”

“It can't be that hard to return it, John,” Rose tuts.

“ _I don't have the receipt!_ It's a regift. I can't return a regift.”

In an effort to undo the chaos that's already been unleashed, Rose supplies a nonpartisan response, “Are you really going to admit, out loud, that your wedding present for my brother is a _regift_?”

“Yes, I will!” John says this with a stern nod.

Dave shrugs. “That's what I'd get him. Let me guess, it's that rotisserie chicken machine your druggie junior year roommate left you, right? I've always wanted that thing...”

“I am _not_ going to give you the rotisserie chicken machine, dude, I've already told you that! You can keep guessing, though.”

“Hm... Is it the model skeleton that Vriska stole from the bio lab?”

“No, that got taken back by campus officials,” John shakes his head, as if upset and distraught at what was actually the only natural conclusion to such an event. “And you're not even close.”

Karkat has sunken even deeper into his seat, looking for all the world like he wants to become a terrible, fleshy, but non-sentient blob on the floor. “This is the biggest clusterfuck of a marriage I've ever witnessed.”

As the bickering continues, it goes unnoticed by all in attendance that the brides have quietly slipped away. They’re already on board their taxi to the airport. After all, graduating and getting married in such a short span is bound to bring monetary fortunes, and such funds are being used for their cozy honeymoon retreat to Venice.

* * *

Before we can delve into the absolute clusterfuck that is the **Strider-Vantas wedding** , it might be necessary to discuss the happenings of the two involved parties over the years our narrative has failed to cover. As one might assume from the prior chapter, Joseph “Bro” Strider has been jailed. Both Dave and Karkat have, at this point, graduated from college. Due to age differences, there was a slight gap; Dave graduated the year prior to this event, while Karkat only graduated recently. Within the span of this year, Dave has liquidated the assets his father left behind, selling most of the accumulated junk for a sizable amount of money. Apparently, professional film equipment isn't cheap. With said funds, he purchased his own place to live.

It's not far from the city, nor is it far from the university, but there's enough distance between the house and the apartment complex for Dave to feel safe. (Not that his father will be getting out of prison any time soon.) It's a standalone ranch home, built in the 70’s, and updated in the late 90’s. The living space is open concept, and the amenities include one and a half bathrooms, two bedrooms, a bonus room (currently configured as an office), and a two-car garage. While the home was and still is accessible, Karkat's parents chipped in funds to retrofit the bathrooms and kitchen, lowering the counters and sinks to an appropriate height.

Outside of this change of living situation, there's also the matter of Dave's local infamy. His father's last act as a free man was to casually drop Dave's name in the middle of a public interview, thus exposing him to the torrential influx of curious onlookers to his life. While this was a problem at first, both Dave and Karkat have learned to live with it. And, it's not all bad. The attention helped the band grow, and, now, _Pensive Emoji_ has even gained a foothold outside of Skaia. Furthermore, the public's watchful eye has made Dave aware that he has the power to change things. It drove him to announce the establishment of The Medium, which will be opening its doors in a few weeks.

Health-wise, Karkat has remained fairly stable. There have been no major improvements, as everyone pretty damn well expected, nor have there been any tremendous setbacks. By the end of sophomore year, he settled into using a wheelchair full time. Later, about halfway through his junior year, he also invested in an electric wheelchair. It's not one of the larger, bulkier, and more feature-intensive ones, though. No, this one is simple, sleek, and made purely for formal occasions, or just for times when Karkat doesn't want to get his hands dirty. Color options were available, but he ultimately settled on a pure black color scheme.

With all of this out of the way, we can now focus on what really matters here: the wedding.

The venue has been nailed down for months. Dirk's boyfriend, Jake, is allowing them to hold the ceremony and reception on his family's ranch, just to the north of Skaia City's limits. While the actual wedding will be occurring in an old schoolhouse-turned-chapel, the reception is going to be in a nearby barn. Both buildings have been upgraded with air conditioning, which was a must for both Dave and Karkat, neither of whom want to spend their wedding sweating it out in the August heat.

Outside of a few members of the press, invited by Dave to satisfy the public's dying need to know about his life and how he's adjusted after his shitty childhood, the attendees are exactly who you'd expect. Karkat's large immediate and extended family, the grooms' friends, and and plus-ones these guests might bring.

The point at which we enter this segment of this particular duo's life happens to be about an hour before they're due to go down the aisle. They've both stowed away from the chaos of a scrambling wedding party, populated by their closest but not exactly most organized or best-at-teamwork friends, inside a back room of the chapel. Here, there's a bed, a vanity, and some framed pages of books from the 1700's, when the building was first constructed.

Both men are completely oblivious to the scrambling going on outside. They know nothing of their wedding party's increasingly frantic attempts to locate the stars of this entire event, nor would they really care, if they did know.

Dave, from his spot on the bed, runs his fingers through his hair. He watches, intently, as his soon-to-be-husband ties his bow tie, with deft and instinctive speed. “You think you're ready for this, Vantas?” he asks, his voice soft and honest.

“What's with the last name?” Karkat scoffs. Having finished fixing his fiancé's bow tie, he backs up. (To keep his hands clean, he's in his electric wheelchair, the base of which is now decorate with a floral arrangement, courtesy of Kanaya and Rose.) “We haven't done that in years, you shitnub.”

“Doesn't mean I can't do it now, though, does it?” Dave smirks. He checks his watch, and, noting the time, grabs his jacket from where it's been hung, on one of the bedposts. The fabric is pure, shining black, which not only complements and contrasts Karkat's lighter grey ensemble, but also serves to make his bright red tie pop even more. “And you can't answer my question with a question. That's a load of steamin’ hot bullshit, if I've ever seen one, and, being that we're on a farm, I sure did, just about twenty minutes ago. It was so cute, just sittin’ under an apple tree, minding its own damn business. Ain't bothering no one, so I'm not sure why ‘bullshit’ is even such a bad word, y'know?” He talks to hear himself speak, to fill the void, occupied by silence. It's a habit he's been learning to break, but it's a habit, nonetheless. “So,” he repeats, buttoning up his jacket, “Are you ready?”

“To marry a wretched dumbass with brains made of the contents of every stereotypical suburban dad's dream toolbox?” Karkat counters, “To betroth myself and my entire life to a blithering polyp on the ass of society? To absolutely fuck everything my past self would ever have dreamed of in the perfect husband?” His words are harsh, but the grin on his face reflects his intentions, as does his conclusive answer to Dave's inquiry, “You fucking bet your stupidly nice ass I am.”

“Then let's get this show pony ready to rodeo it the fuck up.” In all honesty, Dave isn't even sure what he means by this statement, but he doesn't bother clarifying. Instead, he reaches over, takes Karkat's jacket, which was hanging beneath his own, on the same bedpost, and offers his hand to his husband. “May I clothe you, your fuckin' loud-as-hell majesty?”

Taking the outstretched hand, Karkat nods. As Dave gently slips on his jacket and straightens the back and front, so that it falls properly on his frame, he laughs. “How did we wind up like this, again? Explain to me how, in all that is considered holy on this emer-shit-ald green earth—”

“‘Emer-shit-ald’?”

“Like emerald green, but shittier. Now, as I was saying, how the _fuck_ did I let this happen? Me, agreeing to marry _you_? Fuck, there couldn't be a bigger tool on this earth, even if someone reincarnated as a literal toolbox.”

“Just shut up, already,” Dave grins. He steps forward, leans one hand on the armrest of Karkat's chair, and places the other on his knee. He can feel the bone beneath the fading muscles, and the warmth of Karkat's body rises, into his palm. As this heat seems to travel upward, to his cheeks, he places an abrupt kiss on Karkat's cheek before withdrawing to the door. “Let's get the show on the road, so I can drink straight from the fuckin’ chocolate fondue fountain in peace, as God fuckin’ intended.”

“I might not have ever read the fucking Bible, but I'm pretty sure that it doesn't mention that people should drink straight from a fondue fountain in it _anywhere_.”

“Well, then, you'll just have to trust me.”

Karkat rolls his eyes. Nonetheless, as per Dave's beckoning hand, he exits the room, with Dave following behind him. Before rejoining the fray, they share a final, lengthier kiss; then, as the door clicks shut, they set off, to find the rest of their now-fragmented and thoroughly frazzled wedding party.

* * *

Later, still, about two years after the marriage of Dave Strider and Karkat Vantas, the English Family Ranch sees another wedding. This time, it's a union between a particular **Keith Kogane and Lance Sanchez**. While the two had initially planned to have a larger, more traditional wedding, they've found that, as their date approached ever nearer, they didn't need that. They didn't need a lavish celebration, nor did they need that twenty-piece orchestra Lance's mother wanted to donate. (Not that they even took the offer in the first place. Dave was already slotted to DJ at the event.)

So, on a rainy, windy mid-October day, the two men sprint to their new ceremonial venue: a familiar tiny chapel, now repainted bright white. Their suits are soaked, their hair hangs in their faces, and their shoes couldn't possibly have kept up with the amount of water they've splashed up. Their socks are wet, and, as far as Lance is concerned, this is the worst thing about the entire situation. Nevertheless, the fact that he's getting married overpowers this minor inconvenience.

“I told you to park the car a little closer to the chapel,” Lance laughs, digging his heel into a particularly muddy patch of dirt. “‘It's going to rain, Keith,’ I said. ‘Oh, no, don't worry about that shit, Lance. It'll be fine,’ you said, as you ate your stupid burrito. And, now, look where we are!”

“I'm not a meteorologist, Lance. What do you want from me?” Keith rolls his eyes. He steps forward, only slip in some moistened cow turd. Before he can hit the ground, though, he feels a pair of hands at his back. “Fuck. Nice catch.”

“Ana already got chocolate sauce on my tie,” Lance explains, in reference to the actions of his young niece, “We've already turned that inside out. I don't think we can get away with turning an entire suit inside out.”

“You're right about that,” Keith shrugs. He tugs at his jacket sleeves, and straightens the suit's fabric before continuing, albeit at a slower and more careful pace. He's about to complain about the weather, only for the rain to slow, eventually stalling out at a gentle patter. By the time they're at the chapel door, with formal shoes coated in mud and dripping wet suits, there's even a sliver of sun shining down upon the drenched earth.

“Hey. Before you you open the door,” Lance speaks up, freezing Keith in his tracks. He steps forward and, with a gentle hold of Keith's shoulder, turns his fiancé around. He pulls him into a tight hug, and ends it with a kiss. “Turn that frown upside-down, mister, we're getting married.”

Keith, stunned by this development, and without anything witty to say in return, simply nods. He allows himself to relax, to smile, and to take a moment to pause, and appreciate the scene before him. Yellowing grass sways in a gentle breeze. In the air, there's the scent of a wood-burning stove and of the crisp autumn leaves. And, before he turns around to open the door, he sees it. Over Lance's shoulder, and rapidly fading against a moving ray of light, there's a faint rainbow. The tension in his shoulders dissipates.

 _Who cares if we're late, or if we're dirty, or if we look like hobos after a slide in the mud?_ Keith finds himself thinking. All that matters, he realizes, is that he's with someone he loves, soon to be surrounded by the people he cares about, and everything is good.

* * *

Tucked away, inside the wallet of a particular Karkat Vantas, is a small slip of paper. Its edges are worn; the surface, itself, has turned a soft yellow; the page is wrinkled, as if it had been thrown away at some point (a theory bolstered by the hint of a wine stain in the corner); and, across the middle, there's a tear, which has been lovingly repaired with layer upon layer of tape. Age, however, has won out. Now, the whole thing has been glue to a sheet of cardstock, such that it can be placed, once again folded, into the wallet, without fear of its disintegration.

Across the top of the paper, penned in grey Sharpie, is an explanation for its existence: “Dave's stupid, rapped-out wedding vows”, below which a second addendum has been placed, this time, in regular ballpoint pen, “Found this on the floor, brought it back to you. — John :)”

The rest of the page is written in Dave's characteristically jagged hand. The red ink has begun to fade, but the message remains clear, even after years of being toted around in the back of a wallet.

Karkat, I have no idea what I'm supposed to say in a wedding vow.  
I don't know what I can say to tell you how you make me feel, even now,  
As we're ‘bout to get hitched, to tie the knot. So, instead, I'll just say that,  
For what it's worth, you ain't too bad of a dude. You're a pretty cool cat.  
But, I guess, at the center of this whole shebbang, is that from the start  
You laid down some sick beats on this lonely heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading all this bullshit! i hope you liked it (and i'm guessing you did if you made it this far). this is the official OFFICIAL end of this story, but i might drop by every now and then and add a drabble or something in the same AU. if i do, don't expect them to be in chronological order. the key here is _if i do_. anyhow, thanks again for reading! :D


End file.
